Brendon’s had an awful stroke of luck. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. The shouts, yells, and groans which they uttered, and which were echoed by the concourse in the rear, were perfectly frightful. Let her see what she could make here. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. She screamed involuntarily—she had never in her life screamed before—and then she began to wriggle and fight like a frightened animal against the men who were holding her. He saluted awkwardly.
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