A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. All this muddle to placate his conscience! "Here—quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side. A bumper round, gentlemen. Knew something was up. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. I've despatched him to the New Prison.
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