Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. “Were you thinking of private apartments, a boarding-house or an hotel?” she asked. Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands. Grace-church Street was entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along it. They will say that it was murder. Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both.
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