As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. To stumble upon the trail through the agency of a bottle of whisky! Drank queer; so his bottle had rendered him conspicuous. ‘You obstinate little devil. Anna——” Again she stopped him, but this time it was not so easy. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. She stared at him and thought the words, “My husband, my husband.
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