The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. “For I know that you love Ennison. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him.
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