She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. “The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all. Of late, however, his plotting had assumed a more dark and dangerous complexion. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard.
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