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.