The woman I wanted was another man's wife. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. "Arundel Stairs," replied Wood, "the nearest point to Wych Street. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. She could not say who, not yet.
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