As she neared the bottom of the dip in Piccadilly she saw a woman approaching her from the opposite direction—a tall woman who at the first glance seemed altogether beautiful and fine. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. Panting with effort, she held her point menacingly at Gosse’s chest. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man. Her head ached with a hollow pain. Brendon. The nuns, they were very good with a whip. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. The very sight of these impediments, would have appalled a less courageous spirit than Sheppard's—but nothing could daunt him.
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