He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square. Their journey had made them indolent, the afternoon was warm, and it seemed impossible to breathe a sweeter air. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. "Ah! you are there, my dear young lady," said the widow, smiling faintly; "when I first waken, I'm always in dread of finding myself again in that horrible asylum. She leaned a little towards him.
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