Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Horrible!" "Poor soul! her senses are going again," said Mr. " "I was never going to tell anybody," she added. His mother used to live i' this village, just down yonder; but when her son took to bad ways, she went distracted,—and now she's i' Bedlam, I've heerd. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. Luckily I’m not.
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