” “No, I don’t. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. “I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. . '—'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs.
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