My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep. “But, forgive me, you are tired. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me.
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