It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. 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. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically. Ennison spoke at last. ‘It could not be helped, whichever way I made my presence known.
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