The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. "I can never get poor Tom's last look out of my head, as he stood in the Stone-Hall at Newgate, after his irons had been knocked off, unless I manage to stupify myself somehow. Her faith in human beings revived.
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