"Zounds!" cried Kneebone, furiously. Very gently indeed, Alderley grasped the handle of the door and stealthily turned it. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. Warren’s Profession. There was some one there.
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