We’ll go to the shops. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. 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. "Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. “Do YOU go across the Park?” “Not usually.
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