. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin. The doctor would never betray him. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on.
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