Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. " "Poor soul!" ejaculated her son. "What's this here kinchen in for?" asked Terence, as he and Quilt strode along, with Thames between them. For this he was prepared; but he was not prepared for the almost insurmountable obstacles which it presented. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. He had always warned her explicitly about turning others into vampires. She shuddered, adding confidentially, ‘You wouldn’t get me in there now, mind. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all.
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