As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. "For the caption!" replied Jackson, coolly drawing a brace of pistols from his pockets. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. She had told Emile.
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