Starting off at a rapid pace, Jack dashed down Turnagain-lane, skirted the eastern bank of Fleet-ditch, crossed Holborn Bridge, and began to ascend the neighbouring hill. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. “I have come from a very unfashionable quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milliner’s shop for a year.
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