Thames Street was wholly impassable. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. 13 with a latchkey went humming lightly up to her room. Now there is none. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. .
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