She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. Gin Lane's the nearest road to the churchyard. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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