He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. Accounts were now always where he could put his hand on them. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. That’s all.
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