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Victor Carrington ordered a pint of brandy. The parlour was a dingy little apartment, very much the worse for stale tobacco smoke, and adorned with gaudy racing-prints. Here Mr. Carrington seated himself, and told his companion to take the place opposite him. "Fill yourself a glass of brandy," he said. And Mr. Hawkins was not slow to avail himself of the permission.
Their talk was no more intelligible to him than the red and yellow hieroglyphics of the racing-prints, and he smoked in silence while Mr.
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