"My wife and daughter, Sir," said the carpenter, introducing them to his guest. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. The Frenchman had moved back into Piccadilly from Down Street, at which the lad following him had immediately sauntered away a yard or two. ’ All at once Mrs Sindlesham looked across at him, a sharp question in her eyes. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. There haven't been so many ladies in the Lodge since the days of Claude Du Val, the gentleman highwayman; and they all declare it'll break their hearts if he's scragged. " "Is he leaving England?" demanded Thames, in astonishment.
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