“But I am at singing-pitch. The Night-Cellar XVIII. ” She turned her face to the fire, gripped her hands upon her elbows, and drew her thin shoulders together in a shrug. He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much.
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