Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. You seemed complete—without that. Having ascertained that Thames was at his heels, he hurried with his ghastly burthen down Seacoal Lane. She decided to go on, after a momentary halt.
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