Grace-church Street was entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along it. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. McClintock, striking a match to relight his cigar, broke the spell. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them.
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