Like appendicitis. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Had Gosse taken it as he escaped? What could she do? Gosse now knew that she was the daughter of Mary Remenham. She was a little paler than when she had come to London, a little paler and a little thinner. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. “I see the pointer,” she said. The priceless things were gathered, the belongings packed. “A girl needs her mother most exactly when she thinks she doesn’t.
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