. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. One of those hanging moments ensued— hypnotic. " "My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm at the woollen-draper. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. ‘You do not know how I am like my mother. I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me.
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