And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. ” He stood before her, his hat in his hand, his head bent, his voice lowered to a convenient pitch. She has no proof—yet. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. You've betrayed yourself, Thames.
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