"She is here," cried Jack, darting forward. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. "Blueskin," said Ireton.
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