He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. ’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest. ‘It’s a pretty name. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour. "Ah! I see. Marvel," remarked Shotbolt. Frankly, it is the funniest thing which has ever happened to me in my life. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. Certainly, there wasn't a thing in the pockets.
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