The light fell upon the fugitive, who stood before him in an attitude of defence, with the child in his arms. She had not nursed Leonardo for weeks for nothing. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. He took up his hat and went. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. How dreary it all looks.
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