"Will he consent, to be searched?" inquired Jonathan. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. She was wholly unable to conceal her knowledge of his presence.
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