"I will live," cried Blueskin, with a look of the deadliest hatred at Wild, "to be revenged on you. ‘If you will not tell me about Valade, so be it. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. If they do, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or huff a magistrate, they pay for their pastime, and that's sufficient. Meanwhile, the object of all this fearful disturbance had made his escape to Newgate, from the roof of which he witnessed the destruction of his premises. That he received guests of the name of Valade at all would have surprised anyone who knew his history.
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