“It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. She was chaffing him about being taken for Meysey Hill, and suggested that he should be presented to me as the millionaire. We men are like children. Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold.
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