Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. Gianfrancesco never suspected that I had my own reasons for wanting you for my wife. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. He had been quite right to sit down. “Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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