A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. And if I don’t, I go mad. "And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose.
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