You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. “I have the right to be here. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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