She was quite the rage, in a small way, you know. I was raised in the Church. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. Having heard from Thames that you were better, and that your sole anxiety was about me, I came to give you the first intelligence of my escape.
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