She would never again be lonely. She began to read, and presently she entered another world, and remained in it for two hours. She blew on the hand cannon and grabbed her bag of gunpowder. “I can’t endure it,” she said. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. You have a daughter, no? Madame Ibstock, I think.
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