Amongst others, the watchman whose box was placed against the churchyard wall, near the entrance to Shoe-lane, rushed out and sprung his rattle, which was immediately answered by another rattle from Holborn-bars. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings. Supper was over. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief.
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