"Ruth!" She had gone to the door, aimlessly, without purpose. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. She had maintained a B in each subject except History, which she occasionally felt compelled to strive for A’s in, considering she had lived through most of it. She had thought to wear it now, since she must look more the demoiselle. She was very satisfied about this. Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. Now she knew why the soldiers had not caught him.
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