He tries hard to conceal it, but he cannot. The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them.
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