Fifteen from forty is twenty-five. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. She had lost it. But what I want to get at is this. ’ ‘But it was not your fault,’ protested Gosse, shocked. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance.
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