It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern. ‘They hold their nose up, so. Beethoven; he’s the best of them. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. The detective backed out slowly and closed the door without sound. There must be something we can do. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty.
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