The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. His voice now had lost its ironies. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. Ennison, or any other young man. Send you the shirt. Directly in range stood the strange young man, although he was at the far side of the loft.
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