She had worn a long skirt that morning, and a roomier sweater that was slightly easier to handle than Shari’s low cut numbers. “Buon Primomaggio. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. Selfishness. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative.
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