The hansom sped through the crowded streets. The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. ‘There is no one who could have told him this. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness. He reached for her, and she struck savagely. At last—I told a story. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. But one of these days everything will click back into place. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings.
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