“I suppose there’s no way of getting a decent income—independently. 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. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. “She is marvellously clever,” he said. ‘Dead then, is he?’ ‘If I could say that he is dead, it would give me very much satisfaction. “Um, I really shouldn’t tell you this, but he said.
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