His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. “I’m going for a long tramp, auntie,” she said. Last week. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork.
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