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"What says the voice-its clear-lingering anguish? Just the watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety? Just a road-man, flinging to the moon his song? "No! Tis one deprived, whose lover's heart is weeping, Just his cry: 'How long?"
There had been four inquests, all upon the bodies of air-raid victims: a road-man, his wife, an orphan baby all belonging to the thick central mass of the proletariat, for a West End slum had received a bomb full in the face and Lady Queenie Paulle.
"What says the voice-its clear-lingering anguish? Just the watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety? Just a road-man, flinging to the moon his song? "No! Tis one deprived, whose lover's heart is weeping, Just his cry: 'How long?"
Her thoughts ran in leaps and runs, hurdle-race-wise across the flat level of her brain. Martin. Old. Ill. Paris. Those walls out there and the road-man with a spade little boy walking with him chattering it's going to be hot. The light across the lawn is almost blue and the beds are dry. His room. The looking-glass. Always tilts back when one tries to see one's hair. Meant to speak about it.
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