She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison. ‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly. 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.
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