It was the last thing she felt like drinking. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. He was her only brother, and she his favourite sister. He stood up abruptly and went to the window. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton.
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