His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. Left alone, Jonathan lighted a lamp, and, opening the trap-door, descended the secret stairs. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. You can’t go. "Just in time," said the thief-taker. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane.
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