The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. The musician. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. Wood, who were, furthermore, engaged in a little conjugal tête-à-tête of their own. Suspicion was in his face. Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. Just as they reached the end of the passage, they heard the voices of Jonathan and the Jew in Thames's late place of confinement.
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