His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. ’ She spoke with difficulty, holding down the rising emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. "You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father, Aliva," he said. Least of all myself. You can come back for these, for you’ll carry him to the gatehouse, that’s what you’ll do. You have told me that you cared. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. But be very careful not to let him know. She loved for him to regale her with the stories of his past, the days of ancient Greece. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature.
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