It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice. But, since I've seen the friend and companion of my childhood, Thames Darrell, I've no heart for it. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. One point in her narrative stood out beyond all others.
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