He unlocked himself from her embrace. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. “Earning a salary!” “You’re like a Princess in Exile!” he repeated, overruling her. It is the only way. The curtain rose out of the concluding bars of the overture and revealed Isolde on the prow of the barbaric ship. The hansom sped through the crowded streets. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem.
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