"Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently.
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