He had chosen his time well. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. Jack fell on his knees beside her. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. " "That's not my game.
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