Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. Another door was next opened, and, preceded by the ordinary, with the sacred volume in his hand, the prisoner entered the room. So she brought upon the stage the Reverend Henry Dolby, a preacher of means, worldly-wise and kindly, cheery and rotund, who, with his wife and daughter, had arrived at the Victoria that morning. “You did your best to kill me,” he said. John was acutely focused upon her now, just as she had wanted him to be. “It’s—private.
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