On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. E. Worse than any man. "And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. I might as well be at Morningside Park. "Hurrah!" shouted he, waving his hat triumphantly over his head.
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