If she spoke to a policeman she did not know what would ensue. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. ” Lucy commented. “Where is she?” He would yell even louder until she was sure that people in faraway fishing boats could probably hear him. “My dear Miss Pellissier,” he said impressively, “this is an unexpected pleasure.
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