‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. The sun shined weakly through brief pinpricks 90 in the thick cloud cover, the weather was brewing a storm.
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