Michelle tossed her hair like a young colt flicking its tail. The hansom drove off. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. But it was now too late to turn back, and, nerving himself for the shock he expected to encounter, he ventured after his conductor. ‘He is not in England, you understand. ‘You have rifled his papers.
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