CHAPTER XVIII. He donned his winter coat. . D'ye hear. "Rather cramped, eh?" "Rather so, Sir," replied the other, altering his position. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. ’ Her flesh crept. There was some justification for her annoyance, for negotiation of the secret passage demanded either a stout heart, or a desperate one.
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