He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. “Okay. "It's all up, master," groaned Ben, "nothin' short of a merracle can save us. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. He walked unsteadily towards the door. “Would you mind calling that hansom for me?” He looked at it critically and shook his head.
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