He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. Every human being is a new thing, exists to do new things. I've just left your nephew. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say.
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