“What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. Of what use was the temporary set-back to memory, when it always returned with redoubled poignancy? Then came another thought, astonishing. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. He is extremely old—forty at least—and he has a belly excessively fat. After he had eaten dinner with Ruth, he had gone to McClintock's; and he had heard music such as he had heard only in the great concert halls. But I don't look for peace on this side the grave. You have misunderstood.
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