‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. His own heart was too full of melancholy foreboding. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. ’ ‘No, I wouldn’t have believed you. ” He shook his head slowly, smiling mysteriously.
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