From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. ‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. “It is hateful—diabolical!” he exclaimed. " "Ship her back to her father"—sagely.
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