He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. Kneebone. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. ” “And that, I suppose,” he said, waving his stick towards Mr. The smell that emanated from the opening was abominable. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend.
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