“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. “The smallest will do for me quite well. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. “Do you mean to say that you have been here ever since I came?” “I am afraid that I must confess it,” he answered. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street.
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