"You'll lose no time," said the thief-taker. He seated himself before it. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. "I don't know what his idea was. ” “It takes a great deal of bad weather to depress the true Parisian,” Anna admitted. .
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