"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. None this end. ‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters. I really must leave you now. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. "I'll make a sketch, too," he said. " "'Sblood!" exclaimed Wild, uneasily.
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