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Wood," she continued, with a sudden change of tone, and convulsively clutching the carpenter's arm, "promise it me. Come and help me pack. I’ve had enough of it. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. 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. "Well, he's a pretty fellow at all events," observed Mrs. Ludicrously loud sounds streamed from the array of speakers. In truth, she liked Gerald also.
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