The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. " So saying, he sprang, with a bound like that of a tiger-cat, against the throat of the woollen-draper. ‘For once, you’re talking like a sensible man. “Very likely,” he answered.
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