" "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. "You," answered Jack, abruptly. “I am sorry that I have murdered you. She could even think of what had happened. She was tempted to touch him in the car as they drove to the empty house, but she refrained for fear of causing a car accident. One Friday afternoon, in this pleasant month, it chanced that Mr. Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. Let me lie in Willesden churchyard.
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