“I feared we might have a fog. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Lucy could feel blood welling underneath a bump half swelling and already half-healing on her scalp. Consternation gripped him. But there was a face pressed to the glass. It’s all outside the world of your experience. To remove this obstacle it was necessary make an extensive breach in the wall. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house.
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