The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. For a few minutes all was silent. She had reason enough to be grateful to Prudence Sindlesham and it was not fair that this horrible feeling of loneliness should be made known to her. "I was just thinking of you Jack. “Perhaps for myself I do not mind, but this man is sure to find out some day, and he will not like having been deceived.
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