" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. He recalled with exasperating perplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked about love-making being unconvincing. That is why I was so anxious to leave Paris. You called her a wanton!" "Because I had every reason to believe she was one. Opening the door he then stepped into a dark narrow passage leading, as he was well aware, to the chapel. The truth was impossible, indecent. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me. Lassitude?” “I suppose so.
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