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The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Wood and Thames taking their places on either side of it, and Jack at a little distance behind. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. “Won’t you have some more tea, Mr. Look at these walls. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. "But, I should think, after the specimen you've just given of your amiable disposition, no person would be likely to saddle himself with such an incumbrance.
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