Traversing Angel Court, and Green Arbour Court,—celebrated as one of Goldsmith's retreats,—he speedily reached Seacoal Lane, and pursuing the same course, which he and Thames had formerly taken, arrived at the yard at the back of Jonathan's habitation. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. “I shall not speak,” he said, “now or at any other time. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. Away in London even now Capes was packing and preparing; Capes, the magic man whose touch turned one to trembling fire.
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