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"I find I was in error. Occasionally he relit his pipe. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. “I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. It was better even than the hymn-singing. ” She shivered. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. 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.
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