” “I’m not. " Broken pipes littered the floor, if that can be said to be littered, which, in the first instance, was a mass of squalor and filth. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road.
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