“Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. "What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. He refused to believe that Anna was not ‘Alcide. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. He addressed the boy as Jay. For a moment he believed this merely a new phase of the dream.
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