” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. Spurling. ” She disengaged herself from him and went out of the room with a grave, preoccupied expression. Say I’m out, away, anything!” “I am sorry, sir,” the man answered, “but she had sent away her hansom before I answered the bell. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. I decided to go in and wait. "Shall I never see that sweet face again,—never feel the pressure of those kind hands more—nor listen to that gentle voice! Ah! yes, we shall meet again in Heaven, where I shall speedily join you. Yet, stay! There is one thing I wish you to do. Kneebone's.
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