Larry kept digging heartily into his spaghetti, not intrigued in the slightest. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. Clientèle was of the most transitory character. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long.
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