“Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. C. ” “It’s gone. “There are policemen—and buses. . Poor little one. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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