It’s gone. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. He was no match for Brendon. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. I must break open the door.
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