A faint gleam of returning colour gave her at once a more natural appearance. To them all I am nothing. I have been around them for long enough. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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