These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. “Yes. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. Heaven forbid. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. As soon as the service was over, Thames contrived to approach him, and whispered, "Be cautious,—the funeral will take place after evening service.
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