For awhile he watched the revolving light on Copeley's. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. ‘Obsessed, that’s what you are. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Some indeed carried themselves, dressed themselves even, rather as foreign visitors from the land of “Looking Backward” and “News from Nowhere” than as the indigenous Londoners they were. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said.
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