"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. The father, granite; the daughter, fire: Spurlock saw the one and heard the other, his amazement indescribable. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. “I’m sorry. "Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him.
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