How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. ‘Sleeping like a baby, he is. Well, well; all he himself could do would be to watch this singular drama unroll. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. She shrank from him as he gripped her hand more forcibly. On reflection, it occurred to him that he might, perhaps, be able to loosen the iron fillet; a notion no sooner conceived than executed. If only one might open the shutters and let in the light. I hope she falls off the face of the planet.
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