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But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. The shops were lighting up into gigantic lanterns of color, the street lamps were glowing into existence, and she had lost her way. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. “What a little brick!” he murmured. " "I am almost afraid to utter it," said Kneebone; "but Thames Darrell is murdered.
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