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He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. The Enschede Bible—the one out of which she read—had been strangely mutilated. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy.
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