ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. ‘I’ll take wine,’ the lady said briefly, turning back instantly to Hilary. We’ve deserted the posts in which we found ourselves, cut our duties, exposed ourselves to risks that may destroy any sort of social usefulness in us. Nothing, in short, portable or valuable was left.
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