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She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. The tapstress was full of curiosity; but she appeared more easy than the others. You’re a piss-poor liar, John. I've often regretted that I didn't investigate the matter. The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield.
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