The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. He's more like a lord than—" As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room. I don't care how lonesome it is. Visible underneath his collar were some metal tags. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged.
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