“Was it really only this afternoon that I met you in St. . Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination.
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