“I do. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. Only her babe died. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back.
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