He gripped the window-sill behind him. I never saw a man who wasn't. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. The stranger with a bow returned to his table. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. The dusky obscurity of the room was twice welcome.
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