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She recalled that day of the typhoon and the sloop crashing on the outer reefs. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. At one moment, it seemed as if the flying bark was about to put to shore. The country was partitioned in a similar manner. Several people in the crowd seemed to be fighting. “There is my aunt,” she said. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. After all, what can it matter? It was just to make sure. His eyes were fixed upon her face, but he opened his lips twice before he spoke. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. She walked back to the car. Saint Giles's Round-house. She held her hand to the place where he had slapped her.
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