And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. A tinge of admiration rose in his breast. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. Some part of the stiff vigour of the man seemed to have subsided.
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