‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. Observe it—a blue-serge coat. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold. I must know what new thing has come between us that she should treat me as a lover one day and a monster the next. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Listen.
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