The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. A piece of seaweed touched her hand, tender and green. About nine o'clock, an immense mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate.
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