“Love should be enough, John, but it never is. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed.
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