"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. They don’t count, and I don’t care. Prom a knot of idlers at a public-house, he learnt that Jonathan Wild had just ridden past, and that his setters were scouring the country in every direction. Oh! you haven't got the key—then I must have it, I suppose. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears.
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