His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. There was no point in rushing into the long walk home. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. ‘But do you not see that he will come again? I think it is better if you, both of you, go and leave me here to find—’ She broke off, looking away. Sorrows and danger and disappointment she had known.
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