“Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. "From that door," continued the thief-taker, pointing to the gloomy portal of the prison opposite which they were standing, "the condemned are taken to Tyburn. Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Come!” They went out together and he called a hansom. We're lost.
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