If this success continued, it would be easy to assume the name of Taber. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. “We have no airs and graces here, and my hat hangs from a peg in the passage. ’ ‘Yes, but what is it, Jacques?’ demanded the lady. I understand. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane.
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