She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers. Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. A bad one in a rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. ‘I live in Kent.
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