“It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. It was impossible to meet the motion bodily. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn’t.
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