“Not much. McClintock says they can't get in there, or at least they never try it. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. But you’ve got to lend me forty pounds. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who was enjoying himself.
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