It was now a quarter past twelve. "The plot's out!" cried Jack. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat.
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