"Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. It might prove rewarding. He's had a hard knock somewhere; and until he is strong enough to walk, we must keep his interest away from that thought. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. Miss Stanley threw aside a black cloak to reveal a discreet and dignified arrangement of brown silk, and then embraced Ann Veronica with warmth. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night.
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