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Such pretty manners, she thought. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. To lose was death, quickly and mercilessly delivered. The pistol, it was not loaded. He stood completely still as she moved her tongue up and down its shaft. Turning off again on the left, down Seacoal Lane, they arrived at the mouth of a dark, narrow alley, into which they plunged; and, at the farther extremity found a small yard, overlooked by the blank walls of a large gloomy habitation.
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