Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. Running to Gosse, she seized the portrait from his hand and lashed out, taking him off guard, so that he staggered back and fell against the card table. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Did you bring any luggage?" "All I own. I don’t conceal it. Perhaps that was the reason why she enjoyed preparing suppers at the Becks.
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