"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. There are way-stations—even terminals. She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. ‘He arst me to find him someone who might go with you.
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