Wood started to his feet. He waited. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. When she awoke, the sun was high in Heaven. There was something fatalistic about the letter H.
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