The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. “It isn’t quite that we’re toys.
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