For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. As soon as he finished a sheet, he tossed it aside and began another. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. Or perhaps my father once. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. Her desires were not for riches. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English.
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