Only I wish that it did not remind one so much of a second-hand clothes shop. I’ve made no mention of guns and daggers or, indeed, any of the more exciting aspects of the business. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. “Excuse me a moment.
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