. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling supported by huge uncovered rafters, and so low as scarcely to allow a tall man like himself to stand erect beneath it. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. “I should like to understand you,” he said. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. She could hear their footsteps upon the pavement. David Courtlaw. He saw it in book-covers, on the stage. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room.
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