Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. His glasses were gone. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. The youth produced a crumpled-up card from his waistcoat pocket. “Not at all. Hawk and Buzzard VI.
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