However this may be now, it was unquestionably true of old Newgate. The flush deck was without wells. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. He addressed her by that title, and something in the tone disturbed her. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman.
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