Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. "Is she dead?" "No—no," answered Hogarth. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. Are you sure what it is you want of me?” “I want you. C.
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