The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. I thought you understood. There are a thousand questions I'd like to ask you, but I sha'n't ask them. I don’t quite know why. It would be swindling.
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