Then a surge of rage welled up. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. There was something fatalistic about the letter H. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. She didn’t choose her man. She tried to be casual.
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