‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. “Yes. She was civil, but she was obviously impatient to know his errand. You know—if you want freedom. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. .
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