“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. I think too much about myself. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. He unlocked himself from her embrace. Something he saw there had a curious effect upon him. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs.
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