The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. McClintock. "Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?" "Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly.
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