I wanted to, that day in the Zoo. “It’s—private. CHAPTER XIII. “I wonder would you mind seeing who it is. Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. 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.
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