"Pity the features are not better preserved."
"No need for us to see the features," exclaimed I, pointing to the
locks of golden red hair that hung in tangled masses about her. "The
hair is enough; she is not the one." And I turned aside, asking myself
if it was relief I felt.
To my surprise Mr. Gryce did not follow.
"Tall, thin, white face, black eyes." I heard him whisper to himself.
"It is a pity the features are not better preserved."
"But," said I, taking him by the arm, "Fanny spoke particularly of her
hair being black, while this girl's--Good heavens!" I suddenly
ejaculated as I looked again at the prostrate form before me. "Yellow
hair or black, this is the girl I saw him speaking to that day in
Broome Street. I remember her clothes if nothing more." And opening
my pocketbook, I took out the morsel of cloth I had plucked that day
from the ash barrel, lifted up the discolored rags that hung about
the body and compared the two. The pattern, texture and color were
the same.
"Well," said Mr. Gryce, pointing to certain contusions, like marks
from the blow of some heavy instrument on the head and bared arms of
the girl before us; "he will have to answer me one question anyhow,
and that is, who this poor creature is who lies here the victim of
treachery or despair.
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