Only I do not care to write about anything else. The flat was apparently empty. We felt like thieves. Pilgrim's Progress, The Life of Martin Luther and Alice in Wonderland (the only fairy-story she had been permitted to read) were the sum total of her library. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud.
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