It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. I saw him lying on the footway. She was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black.
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