Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. You mustn't go by what you read so much as by what you see and hear. She had changed into dungarees herself and kept her hair as it was. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames.
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