Grace-church Street was entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along it. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. There are two ways to go in, you understand. “They’d better not,” said Hetty.
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