Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. The lady murmured briefly to her husband, and then tucked her hand into Alderley’s arm. F. Coffee à la Turque wasn't so bad; but a guy couldn't soak his breakfast toast in it. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way.
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