She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. Places, I found, were daily given away, And yet no friendly gazette mentioned Gay. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. On these were thrown all the horrible contents of Jonathan's museum, together with the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard. “You are late,” she murmured. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. I am sorry, but you have spoilt me. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass.
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