Oh dear!—oh dear! Be careful of him," she added to her husband, "and get it over quickly, or never expect to see me again. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. ” “What ball?” The question was rhetorical.
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