"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. "The Chevalier shall hear of this," whispered the woollen-draper. Here, might be seen a poor fellow whose teeth were knocked down his throat, spluttering out the most tremendous menaces, and gesticulating like a madman: there, another, whose nose was partially slit, vented imprecations and lamentations in the same breath. But don't thank me; thank Miss Enschede.
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