She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. She nursed at his neck as he peacefully slumbered through being killed. There was plenty of sweet water. Ramage looked at her for a long and discriminating interval without speaking. She was still good at following orders.
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