ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. Deep verandas ran around the bungalows, with bamboo drops which were always down in the daytime, fending off the treacherous sunshine. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. "Hey, you!" Ah Cum stopped and turned. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned. Hey. It’s not you—not a bit. Produce them!" "Never!" replied Kneebone. Sir John was not used to such glances, and he liked them. A millionaire and a knight, even though his money has been made in carpets, is used to being a person of interest.
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