"I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. Beyond that everything was nebulous. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. If I had known that you had meant to talk like this I wouldn’t have come here. Tight. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little.
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