But how can I help it," Holmes said, lightly, "if I am like my mother, here ?"--putting his hand to his mouth.
"God help us, how can yoh?
It's hard to think father and mother leave their souls fightin' in their childern, cos th' love was wantin' to make them one here." Something glittered along the street as he spoke: the silver mountings of a low-hung phaeton drawn by a pair of Mexican ponies.

One or two gentlemen on horseback were alongside, attendant on a lady within, Miss Herne.

She turned her fair face, and pale, greedy eyes, as she passed, and lifted her hand languidly in recognition of Holmes.

Polston's face coloured.
"I've heered," he said, holding out his grimy hand.

"I wish yoh well, Stephen, boy.