His hat was placed upon one pole, his wig on another. "A hundred pounds!" exclaimed Shotbolt. Warren’s Profession. "Here are a pair of gloves and a nosegay for you. “You can say what you have to say before Mr. Curses light on the horse!" he added, seizing the bridle of his steed, who continued snorting and shivering, as if still under the influence of some unaccountable alarm; "what can ail him?" "I know what ails him, your honour," rejoined the groom, riding up as he spoke; "he's seen somethin' not o' this world. It was not a hopeful looking group. " The tone was neutral. The expression was wholly different.
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