She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Do you think that I am utterly selfish?” She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. Turning off again on the left, down Seacoal Lane, they arrived at the mouth of a dark, narrow alley, into which they plunged; and, at the farther extremity found a small yard, overlooked by the blank walls of a large gloomy habitation. . .
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