And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. The man pulled up. "I'm sorry for old Newgate that another jail should have it. Wait, though. Shouting to his companion, even as they passed by where I hid myself, he called out that he thought to find you at the convent. Were I a painter of subject pictures, I would exhaust all my skill in proportion and perspective and atmosphere upon the august seat of empire, I would present it gray and dignified and immense and respectable beyond any mere verbal description, and then, in vivid black and very small, I would put in those valiantly impertinent vans, squatting at the base of its altitudes and pouring out a swift, straggling rush of ominous little black objects, minute figures of determined women at war with the universe. Better check on Remenham House, I suppose.
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