That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. ’ Pottiswick sucked at his teeth through the gaps. He recognised Anna, and at once addressed her. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books.
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