“I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. “But your hair,” he gasped. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. ” “It might become one,” he answered.
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