What of Gosse, whom those soldiers had allowed to escape? Hiding—or perhaps gone. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said.
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