Glancing at the finger-post over the cage, which has been described as situated at the outskirts of the village, and seeing no directions to Dollis Hill, he made fresh inquiries as to where it lay, from an elderly man, who was standing with another countryman near the little prison. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. John knew everybody, it seemed. Apparently I’m not to exist yet.
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