His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. "I dare not, Rowland," she answered. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. Jack, meanwhile, heard, the shouts, and, though alarmed by them, held on a steady course.
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