White’s boarding-house in Russell Square. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. “Mr. " "On no account," rejoined Wood peremptorily. Thames sat with Winifred's hand clasped in his own, and commenced a recital of his adventures, which may be briefly told. He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand.
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