"You are complimentary, Sir Rowland," returned the other, with a grim smile. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. Then suddenly, in front of all those windows, he folded her in his arms and pressed her to him, and kissed her unresisting face. ‘Parbleu, the house, is it broken in the least? I do not think so. Purney, the present ordinary of Newgate. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers.
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