As she drew off her skirt she felt something in the pocket, and remembered the letter which the commissionaire at the Carlton had given her. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. CHAPTER XXIII. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing.
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