“Bad hemorrhage,” he said. At last in a street near the Hampstead Road she hit upon a room that had an exceptional quality of space and order, and a tall woman with a kindly face to show it. His commissions this day would not fill his metal pipe with one wad of tobacco. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on returning to consciousness would naturally relate to his letter of credit. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression.
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