And if she was ever found living in the area like that, homeless, John could somehow find out. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal.
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