“Come,” he continued, “the world after all is a very small place. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield.
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