‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. “Hello, Teddy!” she answered. ” She led the way, talking all the time to Ennison. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. 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.
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