“Now,” he said, quietly, “it’s time we stopped this nonsense. But his own ferocity was less now that she was disarmed. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother. The door was locked; but, with the bars of iron, it was speedily burst open. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the road. He saluted awkwardly. A wedding procession turned the corner.
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