Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. " "Do you call ten guineas easy terms?" cried Wood, with a look of dismay. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness.
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