She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. Just let him down easy, Lucy. “I think they do. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s.
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