Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. “They died within a few months of one another. "Where?" "That can wait," she answered. "She is my lawful wife. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. Out of all this we have struck a sort of harmony. Fire; she was full of it. Scissors with which to cut her hair, just in case. You couldn’t help it. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand.
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