But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. The coach was slowing down, and he realised that they had arrived in Golden Square. He's nice. 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. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. “Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said.
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