Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. They've paid for their lodging. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. " "I always detested Mrs. Understand me. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. I'm going through his pockets.
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