Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau.
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