"You are free," said he, "that grating forms a ladder, by which you may descend in safety. “Bit thick on the old man, isn’t it?” said Roddy, who had developed a bluff, straightforward style in the motor shop. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. "Bury her in Willesden churchyard, as she requested, on Sunday," said Jack. Wouldn't it be fun to see his name on a book-cover some day? He'll go strutting up and down without ever dreaming he owed the whole shot to us.
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