She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. ” The suitcase loomed in her memory, making its presence felt once again. ‘Ah. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. Anna merely glanced at the coarse, flushed features, and at once shook her head. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. “These are her rooms,” she said. "I understand, Sir," replied Davies, drawing a little aside.
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