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Closing in

           "SirLeicester,Iamdesirousbutyouareengaged."Oh,dearno!Notatall.OnlyMr.Tulkinghorn.Alwaysathand.Hauntingeveryplace.Norelieforsecurityfromhimforamoment."Ibegyourpardon,LadyDedlock.Willyouallowmetoretire?"Withalookthatplainlysays,"Youknowyouhavethepowertoremainifyouwill,"shetellshimitisnotnecessaryandmovestowardsachair.Mr.Tulkinghornbringsitalittleforwardforherwithhisclumsybowandretiresintoawindowopposite.Interposedbetweenherandthefadinglightofdayinthenowquietstreet,hisshadowfallsuponher,andhedarkensallbeforeher.Evensodoeshedarkenherlife.Itisadullstreetunderthebestconditions,wherethetwolongrowsofhousesstareateachotherwiththatseveritythathalf-a-dozenofitsgreatestmansionsseemtohavebeenslowlystaredintostoneratherthanoriginallybuiltinthatmaterial.Itisastreetofsuchdismalgrandeur,sodeterminednottocondescendtoliveliness,thatthedoorsandwindowsholdagloomystateoftheirowninblackpaintanddust,andtheechoingmewsbehindhaveadryandmassiveappearance,asiftheywerereservedtostablethestonechargersofnoblestatues.Complicatedgarnishofiron-workentwinesitselfovertheflightsofstepsinthisawfulstreet,andfromthesepetrifiedbowers,extinguishersforobsoleteflambeauxgaspattheupstartgas.Hereandthereaweaklittleironhoop,throughwhichboldboysaspiretothrowtheirfriends’caps(itsonlypresentuse),retainsitsplaceamongtherustyfoliage,sacredtothememoryofdepartedoil.

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