The original passage, Martha had told her, had led only from an upstairs room to one downstairs. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. “Okay, I guess. Was she interested in that young ass who was risking his bones over there in the city? They had come up on the same boat. ‘Is she the Frenchie we’ve been watching for then, sir?’ The lady’s furious features turned on this new target. . “I was sick of the make-believe. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. She has married some one he could not approve of, and gone right away.
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