He was followed with equal celerity by Terence and the widow. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. 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.
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