He did not think of her as a killer, he could barely conceive it. He gave you a poison. They ought to put a lamp. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. But as the mystery which surrounded Ruth fell away that which enveloped her father thickened.
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