Marvel, who had been a little discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very composedly filled and lighted his pipe. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. ‘But lay him down. ” She felt strange confessing herself to a criminal attorney. They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive.
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