"Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. "Only my darbies," returned Jack, clinking his chains. People ran out of their shops to join the pursuit; and, by the time Wild had got into Field-lane, he had a troop of fifty persons at his heels —all eager to assist in the capture. He sees men all defiled by coarse thoughts, coarse ways of living cruelties. If only to say goodbye. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true.
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