In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. For Melusine was on him again, the point of her sword lunging so that he backed up onto the dais. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. Not alone with her, that’s sure.
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