For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death. "Allow him that small grace," cried Wood. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. Seems as she don’t trust soldiers easy.
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