And how comes his cloak on this knave's shoulders?" "It is his cloak, of a surety," returned Rowland "Harkye, sirrah," continued he, haughtily interrogating Wood; "where is the person from whom you received this mantle?" "Throttling a man isn't the way to make him answer questions," replied the carpenter, doggedly. “That’s what we narcs have to do. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. Not a word passed between them.
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