Listen, Jack. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. Sepulchre's church, and hurrying down Snow Hill, darted into the first turning on the left. The night was now profoundly dark.
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