The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. "My lips would belie my heart were I to refuse you. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. Use the gilt, man!" "There's no need of picklock or crow-bar, here, Mr. " "Depend upon it, Sir. Besides, I do not want a price on my head.
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