"You poor child!" said Prudence. “Very well,” said her father. He could think about it later. "I can't see him. As pretty as its owner. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. But he might have broken out of prison, and yet not got over the wall of Clerkenwell Bridewell. He hated horizons. The necessity which had previously existed of leaving the ghastly evidence of the murderous deed undisturbed,—the presence of the mangled corpse,—the bustle of the inquest, at which her attendance was required,—all these circumstances produced a harrowing effect upon the young girl's imagination.
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