As she neared the bottom of the dip in Piccadilly she saw a woman approaching her from the opposite direction—a tall woman who at the first glance seemed altogether beautiful and fine. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. Happened to be at the Chariot, you know, with Trodger, and it’s review day. I can't give you my hand; but you may take it. She was finally dead, going to Hell. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear.
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