“I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. It was a shame that they had made such a fuss, she thought as he arrived. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept.
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