"Set your prisoner free!" returned Wood. He too was flushed and ruffled; one side of his collar had slipped from its stud and he held a hand to the corner of his jaw. " "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. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.
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