Her mother…. 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. “She’s sensitive soul, far too sensitive to be married to an ass like Gianfrancesco. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. "What a wonderful colour!" she exclaimed. Her situation was perplexing her very much, and the Widgett atmosphere was lax and sympathetic, and provocative of discussion.
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