She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. "Leave him to me," he said. ” “But don’t you see how I must stand to you? Don’t you see how it bars us from being lovers—You can’t—at first. She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way.
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