“You may not leave. Gerald saw her eyes change as she recognised him. By a sort of instinct. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. But she no longer obsessed over heresy, no longer did she feel cursed by God. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. That is not reasonable. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. ’ If she suffered from dragging pain in her joints, Gerald thought it explained why her features were prematurely lined.
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