She twisted her fingers tightly. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. She shook her head. The advanced guard rode on to drive away any opposition, while the main body of the procession crossed the bridge, and slowly toiled up Holborn Hill.
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