On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. "Why do you laugh?" he asked. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. “No reason. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently.
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