He picked up a roadside tramp and made a friend of him, and valued the fellow's honesty, submitted to his lectures, pardoned his insolence.

The sight of Carinthia's narrow bedroom and strip of bed over Sarah Winch's Whitechapel shop had gone a step to drown the bobbing Whitechapel Countess.

At least, he had not been hunted by that gaunt chalk-quarry ghost since his peep into the room.

Own it! she likewise has things to forgive.

Women nurse their larvae of ideas about fair dealing.