"Darrell's job was done early this morning," he said; "and if I'd attended to his advice, the packing-case would have been finished at the same time. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing.
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