Part 3 She dismissed the first hotels she passed, she scarcely knew why, mainly perhaps from the mere dread of entering them, and crossed Waterloo Bridge at a leisurely pace. See!" she added, tearing the rag from her head,—"I had beautiful black hair once. Ask your own conscience. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. But it's French manners, I suppose.
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