Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. She could not say who, not yet. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. “I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house.
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