“Too much sensibility and too cold a heart. This is grace I am saying! Oh! my dear! all the joy and weeping of life are mixed in me now and all the gratitude. . \"But you are so beautiful. Was there no echo anywhere in Miss Stanley’s pacified brain? Those empty rooms, if they were empty, were the equivalents of astoundingly decorated predecessors. 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. He then spoke with a certain fatherly kindliness of the past.
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