"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. Under the circumstances you must permit me to be the best judge of the identity of the young lady who did me the honour, as an old family friend, of dining with me. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. Don't worry about me.
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