"Jack has been keeping bad company. “I feared we might have a fog. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. Well, let him be honest. Most of the horses were dead, all but three stallions and two mares left among what was once a thriving stable. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. His vocal collection comprised a couple of flash songs pasted against the wall, entitled 'The Thief-Catcher's Prophecy,' and the 'Life and Death of the Darkman's Budge;' while his extraordinary mechanical skill was displayed in what he termed (Jack had a supreme contempt for orthography,) a 'Moddle of his Mas.
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