” So they went this time to the Rococo, in Germain Street, and up-stairs to a landing upon which stood a bald-headed waiter with whiskers like a French admiral and discretion beyond all limits in his manner. Once in the room, the door locked, the sense of loneliness had dropped away from her as the mists used to drop away from the mountain in the morning. ‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. And, though the villain can't see his orders executed, I've no doubt some one else will.
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