“It’s—private. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like! A Frenchie is what you are, and there ain’t no granddaughter Charvill no more. ‘Don’t be silly. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated.
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