“I suppose most people’s letters are queer. It was the bitterest moment of her life. The brilliant sunshine poured through the window, effecting an oblong block of mote-swimming light. They are for serving me. Nowhere could he see that reaching, menacing Hand. He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. It was enough that she witnessed it and could not go to him. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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