While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. . . “I am only sorry that I did not ask you to go with me. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. This time she tried to kill me with a dagger. " At this moment, Saint Sepulchre's clock struck six.
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