It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. The waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. Along the floor ran an iron bar to which Jack's chain was attached, so that he could move along it from one end of the chamber to the other. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face.
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