It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. The water was cold but she waded deeper. Was he, too, on the way to the beach? What a pity! All alone, and none to warn him of the abject wretchedness at the end of Drink.
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