” “By God!” said Manning, making the most of the word, “I suppose it’s fate. He'd have enough to do to protect himself, without attending to you. . ” His voice assumed an easy detached tone. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. Anna stared back at every one with undaunted composure. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. The Master of the Mint IV. Proof? There is someone who might be willing to help. Good night. It had ceased to beat.
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