The evenings were dulcet and soft. ” She stared hard at her finger-nails. \"Thank you. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. “I am perfectly certain that that man meant to be rude to me. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale.
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