" "Most likely," observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; "the ghost of some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt. I MUST pay off that forty pounds. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily.
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