They had scarcely gained the adjoining cellar when Jonathan and the Jew rushed past in the direction of the vault. He put down his hat and umbrella, rested his hands on his hips, and regarded Ann Veronica firmly. His only warning was a gleam of silver in the faint spill of light from the house above. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. "I've set a trap for him. He died when I was. Then one old crone, short-sighted and shaky-handed, called Ann Veronica “dearie,” and made some remark, obscure and slangy, of which the spirit rather than the words penetrated to her understanding. “I’m really very sorry. I know what I am talking about. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully.
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