He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. A sacrifice. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I’d been your father. 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.
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