His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. She had now the clear and tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. ” Lucy stated. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer.
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