I somehow understood. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. During this colloquy, Jack had contrived unobserved to put on the hood and cloak, and being about the size of the rightful owner, presented a very tolerable resemblance to her. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend.
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