“Yes?” he said. The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. "Manuscripts! Why, this chap is a writer, or is trying to be. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. After an affectionate parting with Winifred, Thames was conducted by the carpenter to his sleeping apartment—a comfortable cosy chamber; such a one, in short, as can only be met with in the country, with its dimity-curtained bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, its clean white furniture, and an atmosphere breathing of freshness. "There is a man in this room who seeks my life. My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep. .
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