Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. ‘I knew I should find you still here. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise.
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