She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. But I wrapped it in that nun’s gear you give me. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. ” “My message is urgent,” he said firmly. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night.
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