Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. It’s John. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly. So far the boy's mind was clear. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses. ‘Now then,’ said the captain sternly, ‘I’m not going to ask you what you’re doing here.
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