He used to live in a boarding-house in Russell Square. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. It doesn’t matter. ‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. She twisted to meet him and folded into his embrace. “Forty guineas a week. The thought of going back!—the thought of the unknown out there!—" with a tragic gesture toward the east.
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