“A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. There is a button loose on that coat under your pillow. Anna admitted the fact. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ‘But a spy I am not. He was there concealed, waiting her return.
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