In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. Just now the waterchestnuts…. “Mike’s an idiot and we both know it, Lucy! I can’t stand him!” “Did you two have a fight? Are you breaking up?” Lucy said worriedly.
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