They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery. “I’ll go. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. "Back!" he cried fiercely. I’ve no name for it yet. She mounted the stairs of the theatrical agent’s office with very much less than her usual buoyancy, nor did she find much encouragement in the general appearance of the room into which she was shown. I'd go for it.
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