She despises me, I suppose. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. She thought of Capes. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent.
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