A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. She felt a little ashamed of herself, a bit of a hypocrite.
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