It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. “Look round the table,” she said. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. This was to pass under the arch, along the narrow ledge of the starling, and, if possible, attain the eastern platform, where, protected by the bridge, he would suffer less from the excessive violence of the gale. Lucy changed into her Goodwill jeans and sweatshirt, plastering her hair down with an elastic band and securing it under a tight hood. I won't keep you long. She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight.
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