She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. He could lose himself for hours at a time. Darkness closed in on them as the officers stepped inside the musty interior. " "With all his cunning, he may meet with his match," continued Kneebone, laughing.
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