ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. The windows of these rooms were obscured with draperies, their floors a carpet patchwork; the china ornaments on their mantels were of a class apart. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. Even the love of a mother does not sway him. “I can’t help saying it,” she said, with the quality of her voice altering, “but I do NOT think it is right for an unprotected girl to be in London alone as you are. And in this fact lay his danger. " A deep indignant groan followed.
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