They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station. “Forgive me,” he said. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. Wood heard the cry.
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