“Well, well, Martin. “But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel. My wife—killed me. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness. Without Jack, it was certain that she faced danger if she went outside Golden Square. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before.
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