‘That I do not yet know. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. He was a stranger. “What are you doing?” he asked. Hurrying down the Haymarket, he was arrested by a crowd who were collected round a street-singer. Left to Capting Roding, as he told me hisself, you’d be in prison this moment. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor.
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