Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Below it a prodigiously large bolt was shot into the socket, and, in order to keep it there, was fastened by a hasp, and further protected by an immense padlock.
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