“Not a bit of it. Now I have done something for which you might be pardoned if you did kill me. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head to the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with the names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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