" "A promise to my mother?" said Winifred, unsuspiciously. Paul’s, were rich and wonderful with the soft sunshine of London, the softest, the finest grained, the most penetrating and least emphatic sunshine in the world. Not I. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. .
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