As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. To-morrow he might be sorry; but to-day, this hour! She rose, not quickly, but with a dignity which only accentuated her beauty.
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