“Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. And mind you don't arouse his suspicions. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. I had no idea!” She sat down abruptly and threw her wrists limply upon the table. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. “Exactly. It isn’t what I have been but what I am. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day.
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