“He can’t be more than thirty. He looked at her with a certain curiosity. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. Fetter Lane, on the left, Gray's Inn, on the right, added their supplies. “Is this hansom for me?” she said.
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