If we don’t live it will think we are afraid of it. 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. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. “It is incredible. She felt sickeningly empty.
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