” He looked at her intensely, his dark eyes deepened with sleeplessness. They were looking for a guide. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. At a sign from Ah Cum, official custodian of the sightseers, the polechair coolies pressed toward the left and halted. She had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance. He was placed in a coach, handcuffed, and heavily fettered, and guarded by a vast posse of officers to Temple Bar, where a fresh relay of constables escorted him to Westminster. Shy, grateful in her loneliness for this unexpected attention, she had listened. A moment more and he would have been crushed beneath the ponderous board, when a slight but strong arm arrested its descent. She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. C below. She packed her things, then ran a mile to Julian’s apartment.
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