And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor. “Goodnight. We have to get them to let us in for the profits of their business, and in return we ask them to—dinner. He had diverged only a little from the truth when he said that his chief interest in life was women. When she told him that the natives called her The Dawn Pearl, his delight was unbounded. The three clerks fought for the only window, and saw her whisked into a hansom. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said.
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