Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. She was dropped off at 2:30 at Whitefield Park, a huge extravagantly lit field in the new part of town. “She told you that?” “Yes. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr.
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