Sepulchre's church. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. Then most horribly she was clasped about the waist from behind and lifted from the ground. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth.
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