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The sea-wind in his hair, his eyes agleam with the fresh memory of
Alpine snows, Will Warburton sprang out of the cab, paid the driver
a double fare, flung on to his shoulder a heavy bag and ran up, two
steps at a stride, to a flat on the fourth floor of the
many-tenanted building hard by Chelsea Bridge. His rat-tat-tat
brought to the door a thin yellow face, cautious in espial, through
the narrow opening.
"Is it you, sir?"
"All right, Mrs. Hopper! How are you?--how are you?"
He threw his bag into the passage, and cordially grasped the woman's
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