A strange girl

Stephen pulled up the collar of his coat as he walked along the platform. Overhead a dim fog clouded the station. He was (32) 1234 trains move slowly, throwing off clouds of steam into the cold air. Everything was dirty and smoke-grimed.
Stephen thought with revulsion: "What a foul country — what a foul city!" He had to (33) 1234 that his first excited reaction to London — its shops, its restaurants, its well-dressed attractive women — had faded. Supposing he were back in South Africa now... To (34) 1234 the truth, he felt a quick pang of homesickness.
Sunshine — blue skies — gardens of flowers. And here — dirt, grime and endless crowds — moving, hurrying, jostling.
He got on a train and passed along the corridor, looking for a place. The train was full. It was only three days before Christmas. He (35) 1234 to go to his parents for Christmas... And then, suddenly, he caught his breath, looking into a carriage. This girl was different. Black hair, rich creamy pallor, the sad proud eyes of the South...
It was all wrong that this girl should be sitting in this train (36) 1234 these dull drab looking people. She should be somewhere splendid, not squeezed into the corner of a third class carriage.
He was an observant man. He did not fail to (37) 1234 the shabbiness of her black coat and skirt, the cheap quality of her gloves. (38) 1234 splendor was the quality he associated with her. He thought: "I've got to know who she is and what she's doing here."