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“For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. I do not even know his name. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. "Shall I fetch the light, Captain?" whispered Blueskin. 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. She felt his crotch through his jeans. Here again the clothes were minus the labels.
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