It was the gallows. Many little things had contributed to that decision. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. ‘You should be. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. “Who the hell are you, Lucy?” “Promise me you will never tell anyone. And if sometimes I grow heady—and it's in the blood— remind me of this day when you took me out of hell—a thief.
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