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“Who, me? I scare you?” He asked. 150 “Homely. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. He was angry. I shall quit it and go abroad. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent.
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