" "What faith is to be kept with a felon?" replied the woollen-draper, disdainfully. “There is my aunt,” she said. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. What were you doing at Remenham House? I can’t puzzle that bit out. The smell that emanated from the opening was abominable. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it.
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