"Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. Dead or alive, I'll have him.
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