“There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. "Yes, my angel, to her—rest her soul! She extorted it from me, and bound me by a solemn oath to fulfil it. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. Maybe later. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. And mind you don't arouse his suspicions. “All right?” he asked. Not for me.
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