The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. Someone had thoughtfully wrapped a bit of tissue paper round the electric bulb. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. But machinery will never approach the hand.
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