Perhaps I am still mad. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. All the party were greatly interested by Sheppard's history— especially Figg, who laughed loud and long at the escape from the Condemned Hold.
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