“It is very doubtful,” he said. —Gentlemen, your most obsequious trout. Yes, yes, you do not like the French, and so this English lady here, she is altogether your flesh. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter.
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