“You are late,” she murmured. What more could any reasonable man— especially a watchman—desire? Besides, the Marquis, is a devilish fine fellow, and a particular friend of mine. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. She tossed her head, and, having no further words, moved toward the door. What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone.
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