This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. ’ His brows rose. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. He could not see these two shrinking misses capering about in a nun’s habit and brandishing a defiant pistol. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. “Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. Sir John felt and looked several years younger.
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