“And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. "You've but a sorry lodging, Mrs. Its parents have perished. He slid out of her. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Oh, don't worry. They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon. After a while one began to talk. Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. It is one of God’s laws that a woman may defend her honour, even with the shedding of blood. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. “You knew it,” he added, in her momentary silence.
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