It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. He turned the water off and handed her a towel. "Damnation!" cried Kneebone. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. He had heard this talk before. The joke of it is that he’s married to her now, and cuts me dead. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both. I meant mischief. Dismissing the post-chaise at the Old Bailey, he walked to Newgate to ascertain what had occurred since the escape.
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