But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground.
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