She told you —the truth. She is Bohemian to the fingertips. She flailed against the doctor’s grip but after what seemed an eternity of kicking and flailing, amazingly, he had not seemed weakened in the slightest by her resistance. But I'll never part with your irons. He knocked at the door. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. “I can’t help saying it,” she said, with the quality of her voice altering, “but I do NOT think it is right for an unprotected girl to be in London alone as you are. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. You, Anna, are one of them.
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