She shut the door behind her. 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. Then there was also the horse. This was what he missed. At least the sun would not be as bright, which was a welcome reprieve from the mercilessly bright early summer days which had invigorated every man, woman, and child in the suburbs but were wearing Lucy down into acute fatigue, along with her hunger. "For my part, I don't think you ever quite got over the accident you met with on the night of the Great Storm. "Oh! that was all, was it?" said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself. To Spurlock's observing eye, Enschede's wrinkles multiplied and the folds in his clothes.
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