He was caked with dried muck. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. “I don’t see why I should take it secondhand. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Then he turned on his heel and walked off. I wonder ——” “London is a huge place,” Brendon said.
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