They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. Well, I've had to be. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. “She has lost something,” he declared, “something which brought the men in crowds around the stage at the ‘Ambassador’s.
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