"Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. " "What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly. Kneebone's door, you begged me to await your return here, assuring me you would not detain me five minutes. Wait, though. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. I feel like a fraudulent trustee.
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