CHAPTER XXXII. Earles said, rubbing his hands together, “by post. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. It was easy to discover that he was a knave, but equally easy to perceive that he was a pleasant fellow; a combination of qualities by no means of rare occurrence. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. He had almost forced himself upon her one night after a particularly bloody raid of a thatched cottage.
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