He unlocked himself from her embrace. “What a little brick!” he murmured. Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire. This intelligence, which she instantly communicated to the carpenter, drove him almost frantic. A sprinkling of callow youths, and a couple of pronounced young Jews, who were talking loudly together in some unintelligible jargon of the City. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers.
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