While he was dragged along in the manner just described, Thames looked around to ascertain, if possible, where he was; for he did not put entire faith in Jonathan's threat of sending him to the round-house, and apprehensive of something even worse than imprisonment. Then he went back to his rooms and lit a cigar. His smile faded. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket.
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