"Where are the packets committed to your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?" "The packets!" exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. ‘Pray you, do me this one little service, and do not ask me why. Well, let's beat it to the hotel.
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