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She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. Wood cut him short by stating his intention of crossing the river as soon as possible in order to avoid the storm. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly.
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