He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. Mere formality. "What for?" demanded Wood.
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