” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. She cleaned everything, wiped every surface, mopped and scrubbed every last drop of blood. I did not lay any traps for her. She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations.
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