One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. “I did not,” Anna answered. ‘That,’ he said stonily, ‘is yet another point over which we fell out. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. Still, one has to be reasonable. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad. "He is respited?" "Alas! no," replied Thames, sadly. ‘Possibly,’ he said. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out.
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