I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. Earles recovered his spirits. You're luck. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Melusine ripped strips off her under-petticoats and fashioned a pad, which she bandaged as tightly as she could over the wound, working swiftly, unperturbed by the gore.
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