Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. I want to make myself visible to you. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. " Sheppard started to his feet. To O'Higgins—for all his sordid business he was not insensible to beauty—to O'Higgins she appeared to have entered the room with the light. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. The tail-ender of this little caravan, he had been rather out of it. Presently. .
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