The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. "If so, I may as well execute my warrant. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. If Thames is murdered, you are his assassin. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life.
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