As she raised it, its lower portion fell apart into two baggy crimson masses. He resumed his listening. A dressing-room then. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all.
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