“A glass slipped from the table,” he explained. “He would never have found you out if you had not personated me. Always. And, in fact, all round the problem you don’t know and I don’t see how I could possibly have told you before. That would be myself, or if she lived, Mary’s daughter. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Maggot.
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