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 will make it possible,” he cried. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. ‘But tell me this instead.
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