Before an hour had elapsed, the concourse was fearfully increased. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. ‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. “And then they are swollen up and inflamed and drunken with matter. You have taken my dagger.
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