The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. And this shall be your diet till you die. But there was nothing in her bearing that a passer-by would have noted, to tell of the excitement that possessed her.
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