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. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. "I could hang him now if I liked. On his return to the room, Jonathan purposely left the door of the Well Hole ajar. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. .
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