At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. I can’t even make myself care. She had to think of something fast, or her reaction would start to make believers out of everyone. I got myself locked up to cool off. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. The Bed Room 400 XIX.
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