Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. ‘You must have been an exceedingly good pupil.
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