“You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. Of course, I don't believe she's what you would call flush. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. It’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. Then, if you weren’t looking, he’d get five feet closer.
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