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Arrived at Paddington, he struck across Marylebone Fields,—for as yet the New Road was undreamed of,—and never moderated his speed until he reached the city. On the Day he had trumpet-like outbreaks of cordiality, varied by a watchful preoccupation. He sent me flowers. Before the first month was gone, McClintock admitted that the boy was a find. Enfeebled by his wound, Wild had lost much of his strength, though nothing of his ferocity and energy,—and fiercely assailing Blueskin, he made a desperate but unsuccessful attempt to apprehend him. I hate what I have to do to survive. “Don’t think that I have been playing the spy upon you,” he continued.
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