The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. "Your sympathy is being wasted. ‘I thought—I thought I saw my—my husband. It is the health of a stranger,—of Mr. Adieu!" And, snatching a hasty kiss, he darted after Jack.
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