ToC Nearly nine years after the events last recorded, and about the middle of May, 1724, a young man of remarkably prepossessing appearance took his way, one afternoon, along Wych Street; and, from the curiosity with which he regarded the houses on the left of the road, seemed to be in search of some particular habitation. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. The winters were terrible in cold climates, and she often had been driven to dig herself large underground pits where she waited it out like a mole in the cold months. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time.
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