Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. The sun shined weakly through brief pinpricks 90 in the thick cloud cover, the weather was brewing a storm.
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