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The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. “Mid-thirties. The door to the library burst open. Capes went first, finding footholds and, where the drops in the strataedges came like long, awkward steps, placing Ann Veronica’s feet. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. 123 It didn’t take long.
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