The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. ’ Melusine glared. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. “It’s Ennison, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street.
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