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"Do you knohere Mr Matthew Pocket lives?" I asked Mr We in the direction "At Hammersmith, west of

London"

"Is that far?"

"Well! Say five ular cross-exa air "Yes, I know him I know him!"

There was an air of toleration or depreciation about his utterance of

these words that rather depressedsideways

at his block of a face in search of any encouraging note to the text,

when he said here ere at Barnard's Inn My depression was not

alleviated by the announcement, for, I had supposed that establishment

to be an hotel kept by Mr Barnard, to which the Blue Boar in our toas a mere public-house Whereas I now found Barnard to be a diseiest collection of shabby

buildings ever squeezed together in a rank corner as a club for

Toate, and were disgorged by an

introductory passage into a melancholy little square that looked to ht it had the most dismal trees in

it, and the most dismal sparrows, and the most dismal cats, and the most