He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. They sat down at the dining room table which seemed empty and 259 huge in the stark, white-walled room. Stanley and his sister into a taxicab, and had waved an amiable farewell from the pavement steps. They would be quite as entertaining as the histories of Guzman D'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, Estevanillo Gonzalez, Meriton Latroon, or any of my favourite rogues,—and far more instructive. Glancing at the finger-post over the cage, which has been described as situated at the outskirts of the village, and seeing no directions to Dollis Hill, he made fresh inquiries as to where it lay, from an elderly man, who was standing with another countryman near the little prison. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. He addressed her by that title, and something in the tone disturbed her.
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