Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. I have only just left Wych Street. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. "This gash," he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, "was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs.
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