“Queer letters he writes,” she said. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. Then it dawned. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. If he escapes at all, it must be before our faces.
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