“His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. You can live just about how you like. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. Now he would take her away from the house before killing her, and no one would find her body at all. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Now, he must have folks somewhere. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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