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"But she is a dear," said Angelina, timidly. I wasn’t. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. It was a dark mysterious place, and what it was used for no one exactly knew; but it was called by those who had seen it the Well Hole. "A storm!" exclaimed the landlord.
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