“No. "Your uncle, Sir Rowland?" "It is no idle boasting," replied the other. She moaned as he buried himself completely to the hilt. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips.
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