“I wish,” she said, “that you would leave off looking at me as though I were something grisly. My wife doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand now. You skulk in shadows, following an émigré. "Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. ” He recognized the force, almost the passion, which trembled in her tone, and he at once abandoned the subject. The twists in his brain had suddenly straightened out; he was normal, wholly himself; and he knew now exactly what he had done. Fresh flowers of loveliness have budded, expanded, died. But it sounds too real to be imagined.
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