” She rose up. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. His demeanour then was sober enough to lend colour to that belief. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain.
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