Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I’ll pay it. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. It was instantly burst open, when the horrible stench that issued from it convinced them that it must be a receptacle for the murdered victims of the thief-taker. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable.
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