In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. Had Gosse taken it as he escaped? What could she do? Gosse now knew that she was the daughter of Mary Remenham. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. Good-looking girl. You’re a good friend. Alors, one must steel oneself.
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