"Not so;" answered Wild. " He stuffed the printed chintz into her arms and smiled into her eyes. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors.
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