You get the idea. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. 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. Jeez! It was about time.
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