He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. She went to a writing-desk and made some memoranda on a sheet of note-paper, and then remembered that she had no address as yet to which letters could be sent. At a little after five, on that day, four horses dashed round the corner of the Old Bailey, and drew up before the door of the Lodge. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother.
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