Don't be afraid. Sooner or later we’ll certainly do something to clean those prisons you told me about—limewash the underside of life. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing.
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