‘Good, good—and not before time,’ muttered Roding, glancing round again. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. " "A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,—with a yellow beard, and a face as sly as a fox's?" "Hem!" replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; "the description's not amiss. " "But that's the point—I don't know. Let me see my child, if he is really here?" "Behold him!" returned Trenchard, taking Thames (who had been a mute, but deeply-interested, witness of the scene) by the hand, and leading him towards her. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir.
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