I made her my unwilling confederate. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. And here are these places, full of contagion! “Of course, this is the real texture of life, this is what we refined secure people forget. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Especially when they wear cologne.
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