I don't care how lonesome it is. It is not for myself I fear. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Perhaps, after all, the others were right. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. But, as soon as he perceived who it was, he roused himself, and glared fiercely at the intruder from under his bent brows.
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