"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. "Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. Die game. Very well, then.
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