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. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. ‘Quickly! You must get up. But she was staring seaward and did not notice the offering. “It’s very good,” she said. ‘Jacques!’ She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low.
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