Besides, by the time they were off his hands, old McClintock would be dropping in to have his liver renovated. "What's the matter?" he cried. I was—I was a corespondent. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it.
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