” Again on his way homeward from Cavendish Square he abandoned the direct route to pass by the door of Anna’s flat. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love. I might have known it. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged.
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