"Why, it's like a laundry," exclaimed Patricia in disappointment as she looked about her. The low-ceiled whitewashed apartment into which they had descended from the winding iron stair was sepulchrally bare and empty in the flicker of its noisy gas jets, the rusty gas stoves at its farther end emphasizing its general air of desolation.,
"I am afraid you will have your trouble for nothing," rejoined Etwald, coolly. "Moreover, you can't arrest me without actual proof.",
"Ho! yis. It berry strong, dat smell. Too much of it kill--kill--kill!".
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