“Is this hansom for me?” she said. “It is nothing of any importance. Fifty in advance. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. Lucy had caught it when it was a millimeter away from hitting her teeth. An audible crack sounded in the kitchen and Mark slumped backwards, unconscious. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. For that matter, my future be damned.
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