“I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true. ’ Roding gave a bark of derisive laughter and left the room. . Anna passed serenely out. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. “Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. "It's a mysterious transaction altogether.
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