‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. 192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips. Any natural fineness would be numbed by drink. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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