Her steps slowed. Gerald’s breath caught. She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. You can trust me, Anna. ’ ‘Willingly?’ ‘Parbleu, what a person you think me. It’s—Mrs.
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