"Have you been more successful, Sir?" ventured Ireton. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. ‘Soldier of fortune. I was helpless.
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