‘There is no question of a dispute. 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’ve loved her for two years, I love her now. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. “Here goes,” he said. ” “Except,” said Constance, surveying her work with her head on one side, “to keep the matches from the litter. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. ’ He sat looking her over in silence for a moment or two, his thoughts revolving around the name and the way it fitted so exquisitely on quite another set of features. We mustn’t make it so. “But what can one do?” asked Ann Veronica. Shoplatch. She could not realize what she saw.
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