That night a grave was dug in Willesden churchyard, next to that in which Mrs. To Gerald’s eye, the refugees therefore presented a rather forlorn little group, almost huddling together and chattering in low tones in their own tongue. She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label.
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