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They rose as she approached. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. It had been her father’s surname, and it had sounded far more innocuous and American than Iovelli. I must provide for my safety. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. “I thank you for your advice,” she said. You have all the earmarks of a fugitive from justice.
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