I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. I’ll give you, say, thirty-five guineas a week clear of expenses, and half of anything you earn above the two turns a night. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. He stood away from her. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing.
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