Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. "Zounds! what's that!" he cried, as the noise of a scuffle was heard behind them. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. He envied her a little. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. ‘Let’s see now. “I heard nothing,” he declared, “and my ears are good.
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