No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner. "I can't say I did," replied Wood, somewhat reluctantly; "what with the confusion incident to the storm, and the subsequent press of business, I put it off till it was too late. " "I wonder where the deuce I'll be able to get some writing paper? I'm crazy to get to work again. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. ‘Poor things.
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