” “Except,” said Constance, surveying her work with her head on one side, “to keep the matches from the litter. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. Only in the sunshine; they would not answer my whistle on cloudy days. The country was partitioned in a similar manner. Lights glimmered in the windows of the different houses; and a lamp-lighter was running from post to post on his way to Snow Hill. “Don’t!” she begged. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in.
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