When night fell, he crept into the town of Tottenham. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Aided by an individual, who was acquainted with a secret outlet from the tenement, Darrell escaped. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers paused. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. Mr. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer.
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