"Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. ‘Very well, Kimble. "My servants, like Eastern mutes, must have eyes, and ears,— and hands, if need be,—but no tongues. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time.
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