" "My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm at the woollen-draper. ‘I do not know your Gérard. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. Living’s just material. Her head ached with a hollow pain. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking. When she entered the office a strange scene was presented to her startled gaze. Brendon.
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