"I fear we're too late," he whispered to Thames. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. The more her thoughts dwelt upon the subject, the more convinced she was that she could not go to any one for help; she would have to solve the riddle by her own efforts, by some future experience. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. He motioned the young man to the rear chair, because at that hour the youth appeared to be a quantity close to zero. Perhaps I ought to have let you order the dinner, but I think I got through it pretty well.
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