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. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. I will never wed you. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did.
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