I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. I pity her from the bottom of my heart. What Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. “It jars. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible.
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