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Mr. "Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner. We were to have breakfast there and return in the evening. But for all that, it offered relief; his brain, stupefied by the fumes, grew dull, and conscience lost its edge to bite. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her.
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