She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. The kissing of the book struck her as particularly odd, and then the policemen gave their evidence in staccato jerks and stereotyped phrases.
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