Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. But there was a face pressed to the glass. Because of the thought of love and companionship? No. I've bumped into so much of the underside that I can't see clean any more. And the woollen-draper departed.
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