” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. My, um, my curfew. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. His progress, however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the Master of the Mint and his train. ‘Exactly like my father.
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