Monsieur could rely upon his special attention, and for the cooking—well, he had his customers, who came from their homes to him year after year. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer without. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal.
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