“You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death. Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee.
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