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THE EVENING stood bewildered among street lamps, its gold tarnished by the city dust.

        A woman, gaudily decked and painted, leant over the rail of her balcony, a living fire waiting for its moths.

        Suddenly an eddy was formed in the road round a street-boy crushed under the wheels of a carriage, and the woman on the balcony fell to the floor screaming in agony, stricken with the grief of the great white-robed Mother who sits in the world's inner shrine.