“I think we are growing sensible,” he said. “I think we have,” he answered, gravely, and took her in his arms, and smoothed her hair from her forehead, and very tenderly kissed her lips. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. “Bohemianism is the least understood word ever coined. She could smell him almost as strongly as she could the new paint on the fire escape walls, along with the wool suit and the weird polyester smell of his wet umbrella. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song.
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