"Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. She cursed herself for a fool. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. Hogarth, didn't I see you last night at the ridotto with Lady Thornhill and her pretty daughter?" "Me!—no, Sir," stammered Hogarth, colouring. The wedding procession passed on, and the cynical rabble poured in behind.
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