“Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. "You are," replied Kneebone. "You came hither under my protection, and you shall depart freely,—nay, more, you shall have an hour's grace. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals.
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