"Let the gentleman take his own course," said Jonathan, mildly. It was at the top of the building, and looked clear over a clustering mass of inferior buildings toward Regent’s Park. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. It was a haunted place. “I don’t know how, but I always manage to find a 164 fiddle if there is one around.
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