“That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. He resolved to judge for himself. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. As Jack conjectured, no one was there, and, though a lamp was burning on a stand, they decided upon proceeding without it. We WERE thieves. I've left mine on the spikes of the New Prison, and must borrow yours.
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