For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. He advanced a step towards her. He speaks English. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. I must finish it at home. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming.
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