She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. Wood's advice and assistance, but the thought of the reception she was likely to meet with from his wife deterred her from executing this resolution. She had never imagined life was half so sinister as it looked to her in the beginning of these investigations. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. A farthing candle, stuck in a bottle neck, shed its feeble light upon the table, which, owing to the provident kindness of Mr.
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