“Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. “I must live, you know. " And he looked at the moment as if he had lost all desire to know it. "Nor any one else, I suspect," answered Ireton, winking significantly.
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