With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. “Eight, Cavendish Square. Old Newgate. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. Wood, contemptuously, "he'll never mend till he comes to Tyburn.
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