Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. Women! He is always chanting the praise of some discovery; sometimes it will be a native, often a white woman out of the stews.
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