ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. ’ ‘Success?’ Her eyes narrowed. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. ‘Move, you. I want to know who sent you those. Observe it—a blue-serge coat. .
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