The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. For a time they walked in silence. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. But he did not follow on with the thought. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. “It’s the spring,” he said. They decided quite audibly, “She’s an Old Dear, anyhow.
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