There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. . 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. "I cannot—will not suffer you to remain here. "Mercy on us!" cried he, as a thrill of apprehension ran through his frame. "Why can't I?" "You will be compromised. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere.
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