It opened and a nun’s head popped out. She ignored it until it repeated itself. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. I'll have to put some pep into the game— American pep.
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