He called Enschede the Bellower. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. ” Horace, the manservant, transformed now into the semblance of a correctly garbed waiter, threw open the door. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. ‘Possibly,’ he said. Both the fugitive and his chasers embarked on the Thames. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter.
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