She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. I have it about me. He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane.
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