She began rubbing it with her pocket-handkerchief. Let us be gone. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. And the less “anything” happened the better. The Burglary at Dollis Hill. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously.
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