It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. “Just look that through, will you. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said. Arrived beneath an aperture in the broken roof, he was preparing to pass through it, when he observed a little heap of tiles upon the floor, which appeared to have been recently dislodged. 102 When he took her out, he was proud of her. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. ’ ‘Must we talk of it? I’m trying to forget it. There is the election——” He laughed derisively.
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