The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. “You are very stupid, Anna,” she said. I shall like to think of it—whenever I feel dull. She recalled how she had stretched out her arms toward the magic blue horizon.
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