Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. There were mysterious sounds, all of them musical. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison.
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