A prison taint was on everything there. The imprisoned air, the imprisoned light, the imprisoned damps, the imprisoned men, were all deteriorated by confinement.
"In Mr Yarde's picturesque but somewhat obscure language, he — er — tipped the cole to Adam Tiler. Have I that right?' 'How the d-devil should I know?' snapped Brandon. 'You must forgive me. You seem to me to be so familiar with — er — thieves and — er — swashbucklers, that I assumed that you were conversant also with thieving cant.'
Now all that, in its mingy way, is logical enough.
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
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