A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. The floor was strewn with screws, nails, fragments of wood and stone, and across the passage lay the heavy iron fillet. "Surely," he added, staring at Rowland, "either I'm greatly mistaken, or it is—" "You are not mistaken, Baptist," returned Rowland with a gesture of silence; "it is your old friend. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less.
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