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           IlandedinLondononawintryautumnevening.Itwasdarkandraining,andIsawmorefogandmudinaminutethanIhadseeninayear.IwalkedfromtheCustomHousetotheMonumentbeforeIfoundacoach;andalthoughtheveryhouse-fronts,lookingontheswollengutters,werelikeoldfriendstome,Icouldnotbutadmitthattheywereverydingyfriends.

           IhaveoftenremarkedIsupposeeverybodyhasthatone’sgoingawayfromafamiliarplace,wouldseemtobethesignalforchangeinit.AsIlookedoutofthecoachwindow,andobservedthatanoldhouseonFish-streetHill,whichhadstooduntouchedbypainter,carpenter,orbricklayer,foracentury,hadbeenpulleddowninmyabsence;andthataneighbouringstreet,oftime-honouredinsalubrityandinconvenience,wasbeingdrainedandwidened;IhalfexpectedtofindSt.Paul’sCathedrallookingolder.

           Forsomechangesinthefortunesofmyfriends,Iwasprepared.Myaunthadlongbeenre-establishedatDover,andTraddleshadbeguntogetintosomelittlepracticeattheBar,intheveryfirsttermaftermydeparture.HehadchambersinGray’sInn,now;andhadtoldme,inhislastletters,thathewasnotwithouthopesofbeingsoonunitedtothedearestgirlintheworld.

           TheyexpectedmehomebeforeChristmas;buthadnoideaofmyreturningsosoon.Ihadpurposelymisledthem,thatImighthavethepleasureoftakingthembysurprise.

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Roboto Lora
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