He succeeded so well that by the time he asked for her name once more, she fluttered her lashes as coquettishly as ever. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. ?” she asked. Before any assistance could be rendered by the jailers, who stood astounded, Blueskin had got Wild in his clutches. In Paddington. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. “Very well,” he said, “I will go.
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