In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. “She’s all right. She had followed a bobbing white hat and gray jacket until she reached the Euston Road corner of Tottenham Court Road, and there, by the name on a bus and the cries of a conductor, she made a guess of her way. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself.
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