"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. Of course there are, millions of them. When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. There was one letter. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate.
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