” Lucy spat. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. ‘But if there is one, how in the world did this mystery lady of yours know of it?’ ‘That, Lucy, is precisely the point that has been exercising my mind,’ Gerald said, turning his eyes once more to the group of French exiles in the alcove.
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