You will be my witness, Madame Joan. The room was dark and dusty. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. He resumed his listening. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. She turned the television off. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness.
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