Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester. This request, however, was refused; and he was told that the only way in which he could entitle himself to his Majesty's clemency would be by discovering who had abetted him in his last escape; the strongest suspicions being entertained that he had not affected it alone. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. Certain phases of irony always caused him to chuckle audibly. Or else he was indeed obsessed. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. At least I can’t talk to them. I swear it.
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