She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. Lucy could see her striding down a Parisian catwalk quite easily. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. Don't be afraid, man,—off with it.
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