She twisted her fingers tightly. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. He was as hard as a rock. I am a thing to be used. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. Her voice recalled him. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. “I have given it up,” she answered. In the rush of commuters he did not see her boarding his train.
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