"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. "Well," growled Blueskin, "you've had my offer. Before we start, I'll accommodate you with a pair of ruffles. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. “If it will keep you busy,” he said, with a faintly ironical smile.
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