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“My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. That was Leonardo’s motto. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. I am a murderer. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. “He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. It was better even than the hymn-singing. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. We met dissecting dogfish. ” “You remembered.
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