It’s on the horse. She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. Perhaps it was loneliness. “Everything goes on, confound it! One doesn’t change anything one has set going by making good resolutions.
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