His name was Sebastianus. They are not your flowers. “Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. “Never—but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape,” Ennison exclaimed.
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