"Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Besides, there are greater rascals than Jack Sheppard at liberty, Sir Rowland. "Hoity-toity! You owe me sixteen thousand dollars. ‘We needn’t murder Lucia.
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