He was pretty successful in Manchester,—a town which may be said to have been the head-quarters of the disaffected. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. It was perfectly legitimate. “This is Mr. . ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. And were you to load me with thrice the weight of iron you have ordered you should not prevent my escaping a third time. After all, that was life. See paragraph 1.
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