"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. "Well, Sir?" cried the other, eagerly. “I think I ought to have one. "No, I tell you," rejoined Jonathan, shouldering his way out of the crowd. ‘That is my mother. She told the porter to take it to the booking-office, and it was only after a disconcerting moment or so that she found she ought to have directed him to go to the cloak-room.
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