“There ought to be a Censorship of Books. But he's witty and amusing, and when reasonably drunk he can play the piano like a Paderewski. She was definitely following him. I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant.
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