She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. And Capes had changed into the easiest and jolliest companion in the world. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. If I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't have happened. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast.
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