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Aye - that's about the figure of it." Chandler's voice had also changed; it was now sombre, menacing. "We're fair tired of it - beginning to wonder when it'll end, that we are!"
"Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the master's like?" asked Bunting. Somehow, he felt he must ask that.
"Yes," said Joe slowly. "I've a sort of notion - a savage, fierce-looking devil, the chap must be. It's that description that was circulated put us wrong. I don't believe it was the man that knocked up against that woman in the fog - no, not one bit I don't. But I wavers, I can't quite make up my mind. Sometimes I think it's a sailor - the foreigner they talks about, that goes away for eight or nine days in between, to Holland maybe, or to France. Then, again, I says to myself that it's a butcher, a man from the Central Market. Whoever it is, it's someone used to killing, that's flat."
"Then it don't seem to you possible - ?" (Bunting got up and walked over to the window.) "You don't take any stock, I suppose, in that idea some of the papers put out, that the man is" - then he hesitated and brought out, with a gasp - "a gentleman?"
Chandler looked at him, surprised. "No," he said deliberately. "I've made up my mind that's
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