Wood, I forget nothing. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. There all the loose characters thronged, assignations were openly made, and the spectators diverted themselves with the vagaries of its miserable inhabitants. And it's a maxim of universal application: or, at least, of universal practice.
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