They were his friends, and they recognized his unusual earnestness. What was to happen now? She turned to Roding quickly. "This will be very comfortable. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. She still kicked herself for it. They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other. Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned.
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