"Arundel Stairs," replied Wood, "the nearest point to Wych Street. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. And you don’t know what led to our separation. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland.
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