She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. After all, why need one look down. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it.
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