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Updated: May 19, 2025
What is Mr. Finsbury's private address?" asked Gideon. "233 King's Road. What brief? Where are you going? Where is the body?" cried Morris, clinging to Gideon's arm. "I have lost it myself," returned Gideon, and ran out of the station. Morris returned from Waterloo in a frame of mind that baffles description.
If I thought you were a blooming aristocrat, I shouldn't have given you a lift." The words were uttered with undisguised ill-feeling; it was plain the pair were not congenial, and further conversation, even to one of Mr. Finsbury's pathetic loquacity, was out of the question.
'No, he concluded finally, 'nothing without Mr Finsbury's advice. And he arose and produced a shabby leathern desk. It opened without the formality of unlocking, and displayed the thick cream-coloured notepaper on which Mr Pitman was in the habit of communicating with the proprietors of schools and the parents of his pupils.
In front of him, in the corner by the door, there stood a portly barrel; and let him turn them where he might, it was always to the barrel that his eyes and his thoughts returned. "Should I open it? Should I return it? Should I communicate with Mr. Semitopolis at once?" he wondered. "No," he concluded finally, "nothing without Mr. Finsbury's advice."
What is Mr Finsbury's private address? asked Gideon. '233 King's Road. What brief? Where are you going? Where is the body? cried Morris, clinging to Gideon's arm. 'I have lost it myself, returned Gideon, and ran out of the station. Morris returned from Waterloo in a frame of mind that baffles description.
I don't like to be making disagreeable retrospects, if I could any way avoid it; nor to be going about the bush, especially at this time o' day; when, as Mr. Finsbury's come, we've not so much time to lose as we had.
Talbot's friends. It is his own fault, and I am sorry for it. Rory. 'Faith, so am I, especially as it is mine fault I mean; and especially as the election is just going to come on. Enter a party of boys, who cry, Finsbury's come! Finsbury's come with the dresses! Wheel. Finsbury's come? Oh, let us see the dresses, and let us try 'em on to-night. Burs. On with ye on with ye, there!
If I thought you were a blooming aristocrat, I shouldn't have given you a lift. The words were uttered with undisguised ill-feeling; it was plain the pair were not congenial, and further conversation, even to one of Mr Finsbury's pathetic loquacity, was out of the question.
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