She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. The winters were bitter here, they could have just as easily been frozen off. "That's it!" cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. As she stared her eyes grew accustomed to the night; and she discovered five persons instead of four. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek.
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