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"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. He was, in fact, quite eager to go on living. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. 148 “Sure. I guess they were bad all the time. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. “Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything. ’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it.

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