“Lucy. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. She slipped it calmly into her pocket. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. Nothing is of any concern of ours except the discovery of the man’s identity. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Piano wire, stained with black rust from the horrible deeds she had committed.
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