The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. ‘I don’t want no gold! Not for serving my mistress. "By my shoul!" he exclaimed, smacking his lips, "dat ish goot—very goot. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin.
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