“Have you told anybody else?” Lucy asked. Oddly, he was seldom angry with her as Gianfrancesco would have been. “Are these ordinary sapphires?” she said. 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. I suppose an intelligent person OUGHT to be interested in political affairs. "He's here. You wish another name? Eh bien. Her unnatural calm was giving way.
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