And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. In all other respects they differed as materially. There was something fatalistic about the letter H. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. “What are you doing?” “Nothing. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that.
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