Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. She did not answer him, as she did not know what to say. Wood. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. My engagement at the ‘Garrick’ terminates Saturday week, and then I am free. ‘Leave it, imbecile. F. It'll be turning over to-morrow. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout.
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