Sheila was a stout woman, her bosoms huge, her face 110 wide and square. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. “Who took care of you after she died?” “My father. What is it?" "Is there anything I can do?" The idiocy of the question filled him with the craving of laughter. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances. “She must have character.
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