‘Oh, my God, Melusine, what have I done?’ Melusine shook her head. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew.
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