The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. At any rate, he began to deliberately personate him. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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