As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. ‘Hilary!’ The captain appeared, alert at the note in his major’s voice as Gerald had known he would be. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. He had barely settled at his desk in his library, when he was disturbed by two morning callers. But he only went home again to Paddington. I can’t stand it.
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