And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. The hansom drove off. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. ” The man obeyed his orders noiselessly and then left the room. And then you go—and half throttle me.
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