She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. "At the Black Lion in our street," replied Jack, without hesitation. The area was sparsely populated. They used the rope—not that a rope was at all necessary, but because Ann Veronica’s exalted state of mind made the fact of the rope agreeably symbolical; and, anyhow, it did insure a joint death in the event of some remotely possibly mischance. During the wet monsoon the west beach was always littered.
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