Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. The picture might easily apply to The Tigress: outwardly disreputable, but richly and comfortably appointed below. It was only a matter of time. They are all at prayer at this hour. “Queer letters he writes,” she said.
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