" "Surely, you haven't stolen it?" "Stolen's an awkward word. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. She opened her eyes. " "Never," echoed Smith, emphatically, "upon my honour. I went to the theatre that night. Practically. " "God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand.
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