" "That boy'll never rest till he finds his vay to Bridewell," observed Sharples. "By all means," returned Wood; "don't delay an instant. That’s the fact about them. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. . Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. ‘You’re not going to kill me this time.
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