This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. Lord, but it was a nun! Just as he had suspected. She would marry him. “All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. At no time did she feel bodily or mental fatigue. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified.
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