I don’t think you understand. She pulled him towards the bed. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. She took a deep breath. “Should I leave? Sounds like she is running out of food. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. She breathed deeply, and he breathed sympathetically. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire.
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