‘Must be still downstairs. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. But one must disguise oneself. “Forty guineas a week. I undid his coat, and I took it from his pocket. The gentleman appealed to shook his head in reply, coughed as only a Dutchman can cough, and raising his hand from the bowl of his pipe, went through precisely the same mysterious ceremonial as the Master. I struck him across the mouth, and across the eyes. That bruise will answer the same purpose.
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