"'Tis a cruel thing you've done, lad. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. You get the idea. I got a rusty bolt cutter.
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