London Bridge had suffered a degree less than most places. The two girls put on shoes and started walking towards the north side of town. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. Other things came. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye.
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