He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. Cathy chimed.
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