’ ‘Get going, then,’ Trodger told his men. Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. ‘Precisely.
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