“Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. See what crime does, Sir. He had meant to come at his business in a roundabout way, but for that little slip. It was no wonder, there was no money to buy food for the house. ‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street.
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