“Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically. You cannot—shall not retreat.
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