As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. The quarry had passed out into the open sea. He told her something about music, the great world outside. You're luck.
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