" CHAPTER XIII. I’ll pay it. Wood?" "With pleasure," replied the woollen-draper. The simile started a laugh in his throat. Of late, he has become the instrument of Walpole, and does all the dirty work for the Secret Committee. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. ‘Why, that’s one of the names with which she tried to fob me off. More,’ he said, ‘but I’m told it’s the most amusing thing in London at the present time. But I don't understand her; she's over my head. ” A dull flush burned upon his cheeks. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. I can save you, and will. ‘But so also it is downstairs. Good-bye, aunt. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be.
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