After that night she made it a habit. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. There was an eerie sense of brooding menace about an uninhabited establishment. The other was helping Trodger with his operation upstairs.
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