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. “Dear me! I wonder where Sir John picked her up. He laughed lightly. I change them in the morning at Cannon Street, and take my book as I come down. White. That’s why I come to tell you. He has had brain fever since, and, as you say, I am more like what you were then than you yourself are now. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet mountain air. .
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