As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. From all angles he was at a disadvantage—in weight, skill, endurance. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. What’s your name?” He asked in return.
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