Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. “The man who was found dead in your sister’s room was named Hill?” “It is the man,” she answered. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down.
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