Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. “I don’t know how, but I always manage to find a 164 fiddle if there is one around. Sheppard, somewhat alarmed by this preamble. Wild is incapable of such baseness. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. Activity in the hall intensified. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. "Do you call this frantic glee happiness?" "It's all the happiness I have known for years," returned the widow, becoming suddenly calm, "and it's short-lived enough, as you perceive. Several people in the crowd seemed to be fighting. " "Impossible," replied Sheppard, in the same tone.
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