Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. When mistress took and died—’ Joan broke off and sighed, moving away to the window. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain.
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