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Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. 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. Sheppard from his elevated position.
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