Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed.
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