She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. They laughed and talked and stared about them. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. Your glove will suffice. Even if she has to work two jobs to do it.
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