"Mr. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. Evidently her foresight has saved me a funeral. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. " At this juncture, the door opened, and Thames entered the room. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them.
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