” She finished her breakfast and strolled out across the garden with the letters still in her hand. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. James Figg was the most perfect master of self-defence of his day. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her.
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