“They are coming past our table. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again. Men usually do. I've told you about him; and you wrote a shrewd yarn on the subject. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent.
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