He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. There’s always friction, conflict, unwilling concessions. “You killed them, didn’t you?” He said. So completely! The oddest fitness! What is it made of? Texture of skin and texture of mind? Complexion and voice. In the little apartment, under the gas chandelier, his inches and his stoop were certainly very effective. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost.
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