Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. But he would make it a point not to speak again to the girl. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song.
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