The villain has enjoyed his security too long. “Dear me!” he said. "What do you think of your nephew, Sir Rowland?" whispered Jonathan, who sat with his back towards Thames, so that his features were concealed from the youth's view. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. The conversation turned towards the subject of the Diedermayer’s many European vacations. All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual.
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