“There I can’t help,” said Capes. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. Maggot, laughing. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. I'll be at the Cross Shovels in the course of the day. didn’t have to.
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