All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I lost; and I should like to be as good as my word. A sense of loss was amongst us. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. "Time to dress for dinner," said Ruth from behind the curtain. "A little, Sir," replied the executioner, with a grim smile. "Because the prisoner's arrival might disturb you—ha! ha!" "I'll lay you twenty guineas you don't take him to-night," rejoined Austin. She heard him crash against it, and turned the key in the lock. A deadlock.
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