“I suppose all life is an affair of chances. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. “We pretend bodies are ugly. He bowed awkwardly to Mrs. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
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