‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. She observed the tides, amazed by how high the water could rise, almost touching the tops of the cliffs. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. Wood," urged Jack.
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