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A tall young woman was buying flowers at the stall at the bottom of Marsh Street. It was just beginning to rain, and she was doing up her mackintosh. She had to struggle with the buttons since she had a bag over one arm; but then, straightening the belt she drew it tight and tied it casually in front. There it was, terrific, sharply cinched in at the waist. The ominous eyelets at the armpits flashed as she turned and walked past, the double yoke swinging suggestively from her shoulders, and the masterful odour swirling in her train.
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