“Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. I don't know what you have done; I don't want to know now. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust.
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