The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. '—'They can't,' says I.
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