Here she walked more slowly, looking constantly at the notices in the shop windows. ” “Damn!” he remarked at the defaced letter; and, taking a fresh sheet, he recopied what he had written. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. That paper must be signed, or I take my departure. She pushed.
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