By and by the tramp of horses' feet was heard slowly ascending Snow Hill, and presently a troop of grenadier guards rode into the area facing Newgate. He accepted this confession conditionally: that no young man had kissed her. ‘I’ll get the key,’ said Roding, turning abruptly. As she averted her gaze, a terrible idea crossed her. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites.
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