All at once he saw a way out of the threatening doldrums. She paused. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. To these a heavy wooden apparatus was attached, which could be raised or lowered at pleasure by pullies. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own. Morningside Park was a suburb that had not altogether, as people say, come off. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. I’m not half smart enough for the West End.
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