The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. Chapter XX ANNA’S SURRENDER “This is indeed a gala night,” said Ennison, raising his glass, and watching for a moment the golden bubbles. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. There was no answer.
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