I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. That really settles about that. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. “It is positively no use, Anna,” she declared, appealingly.
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