The woollen-draper looked at his watch. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles. You see—I didn’t understand. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. I'd do anything for Thames Darrell.
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