Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to his father,—when I think of that father's shameful ending, and recollect how free from guilt he once was,—at such times, Mr. My, um, my curfew. Your reputation for hospitality would remain under a cloud though, for tea was distinctly mentioned. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat.
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