“When did you start?” She said between puffs. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. He used to call it his fire-escape—ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. Too busy. They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street.
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