“Ritter’s!” said Ramage to the driver, “Dean Street. ‘It is not for myself, you understand,’ pursued the man, in an unctuous tone that sickened the general, ‘but for this poor one. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. Would you stand by me—and her?” “My dear Nigel!” she exclaimed.
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