The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. ” A dull flush burned upon his cheeks. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. " "That is very kind of you," she acknowledged. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice.
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