He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. After all, that was life. The Iron Bar. " "A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,—with a yellow beard, and a face as sly as a fox's?" "Hem!" replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; "the description's not amiss. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. You have somewhere to go to in London, I hope.
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