“Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy. “Tiffany’s?” He looked at her comically. “But about last night.
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