It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. It feels like it. "To-morrow it will be mine. “How will you live?” she appealed. ‘But I am perfectly serious,’ he returned in a voice of protest.
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