She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. . A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. He upset some one —probably Mr. " "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image.
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