The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. "My chickens are hatched, or, at least, nearly so," replied Shotbolt, with increased merriment. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention.
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