“—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. They had turned into the street, on the opposite side of which were the flats where Anna lived. About many of these houses hung a mysterious taint as of something weakly and commonly and dustily evil; the women who negotiated the rooms looked out through a friendly manner as though it was a mask, with hard, defiant eyes. She always dawdled, so it was easy. “Sure, but it’s not like you’re married, you know. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful.
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