Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calfbound volumes.
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