‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. ” “Ah!” Sir John exclaimed. I meant mischief.
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