You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time. Something drew you. Every eye was fixed upon the prisoner. That night in his den he smoked many pipes. He was a good foster dad that had never so much as leered at her, not even once. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers.
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