The less she lived, in fact, the better. “But you must forgive me, John. Montague Hill. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. This individual apparently met with some impediment to his further progress; for he had not proceeded many steps when he turned suddenly about, and darted up the passage in which Wood stood.
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