—"Oh! about that boy, Thames Darrell. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. There's my thumb upon it. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. But pathologically, he is still on the edge. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. He placed his chin upon the top of her head. “That’s what we narcs have to do.
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