Feels as if I’ve been dashing back and forth about the whole country, if you want to know. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. I couldn’t rest or eat or sleep. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade. It pained Lucy to see Mike eating so sparely.
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