He's a hundred miles sou'-east of me. Too late. "These writer chaps are queer birds. For a long time he stared at the empty doorway. And meanwhile, we’ll just have these no doubt potentially lethal little claws of yours out of harm’s way. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house. Stanley, and paused. "Thank Heaven! I'm not basely born. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. " So saying, he closed the door. Sir John hesitated, and then continued.
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