She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. Her head had been shaved, and around it was swathed a piece of rag, in which a few straws were stuck. “Just the box only. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. I fight.
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