” She wondered how much history she could reinvent before losing track of her own lies. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. " "Indeed!" said Shotbolt. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same.
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