After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. It was then that the young man entered his thought with some permanency: because there was no apparent reason for his joining the tour, since from the beginning he had shown no interest in anything. Splendidly. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull.
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