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. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. Everybody who’s going to develop into a woman. Manning might go on now idealizing her as much as he liked. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again.
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