“I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged. 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. Maggot, as well as her companion Edgeworth Bess, was showily dressed; nor did either of them disdain the aid supposed to be lent to a fair skin by the contents of the patchbox. Wood; but they never come now. Giles Bowl I.
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