It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. You are necessary to me. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. In the struggle her cap fell off. Go, and let him in.
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