He removed his cocked hat and came towards her. She knew Martha would not ask anything that she did not wish to know. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. But he held the smile until she turned away from the curtain. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive.
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