She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. “Uh, I think I might, Shari. You see me here, an admitted failure in the object to which I have devoted two years of my life. I shall borrow it and apply it to you, Hilary.
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