Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery. “So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. Show him no quarter, Poll. We had better have it over.
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