Feeling rather exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. London Bridge had suffered a degree less than most places. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. The hurricane had now reached its climax.
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