So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites. I have only just left Wych Street. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. I didn’t betray you, I swear I didn’t.
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