He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. She was faint from hunger, her head spinning into dizziness, the blood madness readying for battle. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror.
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