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It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. C. " "You!" "Didn't I tell you that the fugitive Darrell gave me a glove! But we'll speak of this hereafter. Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene.
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