Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. They had turned into the street, on the opposite side of which were the flats where Anna lived. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. That’s probably true. ‘You’d do the same. Something is feeding upon them.
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