The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. “How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. Never any doubt of it. It was the grand nursery of vice. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. He had now reached the adjoining house, and, scaling the roof, approached another building, which seemed to be, at least, one story loftier than its neighbours.
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