" "Hum!" said Hogarth, looking fixedly at him. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. "You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. He seemed to have shrunken in his seat. “We sent for you several hours ago,” he remarked. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. It was bad luck to go to Canongate.
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