" The Wastrel laughed. "I witnessed the bet. Sorry I’m a bit late the first evening. “She is living there now,” she remarked. The person caught hold of his arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. Old London Bridge 1 13 28 34 42 51 63 EPOCH THE SECOND, 1715.
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