Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. She studied the face and tried to visualize the body, clothed in the dress which had created the spinsters' astonishment. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. ‘Ah, the tragedy. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. . " "Ah. His inclinations prompted him most decidedly to take the vacant chair. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. “Well, you know. There’s plenty to be got out of life in a decent sort of way.
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