His lips parted in a rare smile. ‘A French rat with exceedingly long arms, I see. ’ ‘Who were they?’ she asked abruptly. ’ ‘Woof!’ Sergeant Trodger’s eyes fairly popped out of his head, and he seized his prisoner’s arm again. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. " "That kind of talk makes you sound like a white man. " "Most likely," observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; "the ghost of some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her.
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