Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. Hurrying down the Haymarket, he was arrested by a crowd who were collected round a street-singer. Aunt and niece regarded each other silently. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. ‘Very well,’ he said, lowering his own weapon. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere.
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