A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. Stanley pointed to the letter with a pipe he had drawn from his jacket pocket. “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. I will tell you our plans on the way to the station. “You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley.
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