"Well, since you force me to betray my master's secrets," replied Quilt, sullenly, "I've ridden express to Manchester to deliver a message to Sir Rowland. " So saying, he closed the lantern. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ‘Do you think I could endure to hear you prattling your abominable French in my ear day by day? Enough to drive me straight into my grave.
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