The man was thick set, with a bright roving eye. Kneebone, what with flirting with Mrs. "How is the patient?" he asked. . . “I want to ask you a question,” she said abruptly. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. “I suppose he’s frightfully clever,” said Miss Klegg.
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