“Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. "Bolt the wicket!" shouted Ireton, who, with the others, had been not a little entertained by the gallant turnkey's discomfiture. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage.
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