’ ‘A pretty tale. A crowd was collected round the fellow, who was rapidly disposing of his stock. "You mistake,—you are mine. There were lines in her face that age had not put there. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill.
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