The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. "Where are the packets committed to your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?" "The packets!" exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream.
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