She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. His face clouded with anger. ” “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.
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