You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world. But that did not stop Trodger, who had ridden up from Kent for the purpose, from detailing every little inspection and sortie that his men had made in their allotted task of watching Remenham House. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. So Ruth took another step toward her destination, which we in our vanity call destiny. It wound around a small manufactured lake.
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