Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. Starting off at a rapid pace, Jack dashed down Turnagain-lane, skirted the eastern bank of Fleet-ditch, crossed Holborn Bridge, and began to ascend the neighbouring hill. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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