The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Lord, I am sixty. 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. The parlour was cluttered but cosy. White’s boarding-house in Russell Square.
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