Lucy tried not to notice the starched smell, overpowering and powdery. ‘Don’t try to turn it off,’ ordered Miss Froxfield. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. Amongst others, the watchman whose box was placed against the churchyard wall, near the entrance to Shoe-lane, rushed out and sprung his rattle, which was immediately answered by another rattle from Holborn-bars. That bruise will answer the same purpose. They’ll know. I don’t know.
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