” Hill looked up at him, an unkempt, rough-looking object, with broken collar, tumbled hair, and the blood slowly dripping from his face. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. We find out no man will treat a woman fairly as man to man—no man. In her sitting-room I found Montague Hill. "I've known him all my life," replied the other. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast.
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