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They took their places at a distant table. CHAPTER XXII. "He shan't go," cried Edgeworth Bess, holding him by the other hand. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. . Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality.
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