Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. I don’t. Running his hand carefully over it in search of the lock, he perceived to his dismay that it was fastened on the other side. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think.
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