’ Kimble’s widening gaze told its own tale, but still he kept his fingers on the handle of the door. He is in Newgate. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. Here's a couple in hand. " "Worth anything?" "I don't know.
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