" "It shall be, Sir," replied Ireton, bowing. 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. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. "No; but I shall, before he retires to rest. . ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. Figg?" asked Gay.
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