” She sniffled. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. The one nearest to her, which must lead to the library. That old chap has a remarkable range in reading. God bless you, Auntie! I'll go into the mills and make pulp with my bare hands, if you want me to.
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