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So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. "Now, then, Saint Giles!" interposed Sheppard, "are we to be kept here all night?" "Eh day!" exclaimed Sharples: "wot new-fledged bantam's this?" "One that wants to go to roost," replied Sheppard. If such a thing in connexion with him had been possible they would have declared that he was in a towering rage. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. But we waste time. ” She slipped it on her finger, and added, in a voice she tried to make matter-of-fact: “It was given to me last week. " And she flung herself between them.
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