" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. He had got here at speed by that means. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it.
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