She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. She could not see clearly. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St. Shotbolt, the head turnkey of Clerkenwell Prison, and Mr. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion.
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