“It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. “I don’t understand. “Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. What of it?” There was a shout of laughter. Regardless as the gentry of the Mint usually were (for, indeed, they had become habituated from their frequent occurrence to such scenes,) of any outrages committed in their streets; deaf, as they had been, to the recent scuffle before Mrs. ’ A derisive snort greeted this passage.
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