About many of these houses hung a mysterious taint as of something weakly and commonly and dustily evil; the women who negotiated the rooms looked out through a friendly manner as though it was a mask, with hard, defiant eyes. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. Without hindrance—present occupation. “It’s magnificent!” He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side.
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