“My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. She looked in the rear-view mirror. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. "But I wish her hand had been as deadly as yours. I wish I could get you to imitate Thames Darrell.
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