He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business. “What was that?” she asked sharply. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. ’ ‘That old fool? Why my brother kept him on I shall never know. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free.
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