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. And there arose too, a background of shouts. ‘s as mad as any of you, in spite of all his respectability; not a bit of him straight anywhere, not one bit. “You are in trouble,” he said. Unless we can get some optimism into him, he'll probably start this all over again when he gets on his feet. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. Her steps slowed.
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