“Be so good as to stand away from that door at once, sir,” Brendon ordered. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. It was now a quarter past twelve.
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