But I shall lose my wager if I stay a moment longer—so here goes. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. The prisoner breathed with difficulty. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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