And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. Jests are not for seasons like this. "Ay, ay," rejoined Sheppard; "he may do what he pleases,—hang me, if he thinks proper,—if you wish it. You say you have twenty-four hundred in your letter of credit. ” He rose from his chair, and walked restlessly up and down the room. It will be hot work, but it must be done at once. The man’s passion was infectious.
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