’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase. Papillon would have broken him down; anything tender would have sapped his will; and like as not he would have left the stool and rushed into the night.
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