"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. "To-night you shall be my wedded wife. Just as he reached them, the Comte de St Erme drew Valade a little apart and began to converse with him in rapid French. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. Having secured this implement, he burst from his conductor, and, leaping into the hatch, as clowns generally spring into the clockfaces, when in pursuit of harlequin in the pantomime,—that is, back foremost,— broke into a fit of loud and derisive laughter, kicking his heels merrily all the time against the boards.
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