“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. ‘Allow me.
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