She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life.
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