From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. Like the Valades, I imagine. We all love you dearly.
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