“There ought to be some means of getting at him,” he said. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. I bear the marks of some of them about me still," he continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull, covered with cicatrices and plates of silver. They are often to be found dashing about secret passages in strange houses, armed to the teeth. “I wondered.
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