Ms. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. Some automaton within her produced in a quite unfamiliar voice the remark, “They’re playing football. She was already a little prepared by her discursive reading and discussion under the Widgett influence for ideas and “movements,” though temperamentally perhaps she was rather disposed to resist and criticise than embrace them. The times were such that, with the opinions he entertained, he could not remain idle. Time after time he reminded her of how powerless she would be without him, how unkind the world was towards single women.
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