“One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. Fortescue?” “At your service. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady. It was a haunted place. He slid out of her. In the afternoon he probably loafs in his pajamas.
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