The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. She laughed. "Ay, murder him, if you like the term," returned Wild. "I eat for both. He’s waiting. Forthwith he presented his card. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice.
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