In the midst of this light stood a young woman. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. “May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention. He carries with him something that will mark him anywhere—the girl. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. The thought made her exquisitely happy. Sepulchre's church, and hurrying down Snow Hill, darted into the first turning on the left.
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